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Ro/Mn/bn^c. 


THE 


ODES  OF  HORACE, 

S/rattglatefc  into  ©njjlisf}  Wzxu* 

WITH 

A  LIFE  AND  NOTES, 

BY 

THEODORE  MARTIN. 


PHILADELPHIA: 

PORTER    &  OOATES. 


What  practice,  howsoe'er  expert, 
In  fitting  aptest  words  to  things  ? 
Or  voice,  the  richest-toned  that  sings* 

Hath  power  to  give  thee  as  thou  wert  ? 

Tjebnysob. 


LIFE    OF  HORACE. 


LIFE  OP  HORACE. 


Horace  is  Ms  own  biographer.  All  the  mate* 
rial  facts  of  his  personal  history  are  to  be  gathered 
from  allusions  scattered  throughout  his  poems. 
A  memoir,  attributed  to  Suetonius,  of  somewhat 
doubtful  authenticity,  furnishes  a  few  additional 
details,  but  none  of  moment,  either  as  to  his  char- 
acter or  career. 

Quintus  Horatius  Flaccus  was  born  vi.  Id.  De(.. 
A.  u.  c.  689  (Dec.  8,  B.C.  65),  during  the  consul- 
ship of  L.  Aurelius  Cotta  and  L.  Manlius  Tor- 
quatus.  His  father  was  a  freedman,  and  it  was 
long  considered  that  he  had  been  a  slave  of  some 
member  of  the  great  family  of  the  Horatii,  whose 
name,  in  accordance  with  a  common  usage,  he  had 
assumed.  But  this  theory  has  latterly  given  place 
to  the  suggestion,  based  upon  inscriptions,  that  he 
was  a  freedman  of  the  town  of  Yenusia,  the  mod- 
ern Yenosa,  the  inhabitants  of  which  belonged  to 
the  Horatian  tribe.  The  question  is,  however,  of 
no  importance  in  its  bearings  on  the  poet's  life. 
The  elder  Horace  had  received  his  manumission 


6 


LIFE  OF  HORACE. 


before  his  son  was  born.  He  had  realized  a  mod- 
erate independence  in  the  vocation  of  co-actor,  a 
name  borne  indifferently  by  the  collectors  of  pub- 
lic revenue,  and  of  money  at  sales  by  public  auc- 
tion. To  which  of  these  classes  he  belonged  is 
uncertain,  but  most  probably  to  the  latter.  With  the 
fruits  of  his  industry  he  had  purchased  a  small  prop- 
erty near  Venusia.  upon  the  banks  of  the  Aufidus, 
the  modern  Otanto.  in  the  midst  of  the  Apennines, 
upon  the  doubtful  boundaries  of  Lucania  and  Apu- 
lia. Here  the  poet  was  born,  and  in  this  pictu- 
resque region  of  mountain,  forest,  and  stream  the 
boy  became  imbued  with  the  love  of  nature,  which 
distinguished  him  through  life. 

He  describes  himself  (Ode  IV.  B.  3)  as  having 
lost  his  way,  when  a  child,  upon  Mount  Vultur, 
and  being  found  asleep,  under  a  covering  of  laurel 
and  myrtle  leaves,  which  the  wood-pigeons  had 
spread  to  shield  this  favourite  of  the  gods  from 
snakes  and  wild  animals.  The  augury  of  the  fu- 
ture poet  said  to  have  been  drawn  from  the  inci- 
dent at  the  time  was  probably  an  afterthought  of 
Horace  himself,  who  had  not  forgotten  Anacreon 
and  the  bees:  but.  whatever  may  be  thought  of 
the  omen,  the  picture  of  the  strayed  child,  asleep 
with  his  hands  full  of  spring  flowers,  is  pleasing. 
In  his  father's  house,  and  in  those  of  the  Apulian 
peasantry  around  him.  Horace  had  opportunities  of 
becoming  familiar  with  the  simple  virtues  of  the 
poor.  —  their  independence,  integrity,  chastity,  and 
homely  worth.  —  which  he  loved  to  contrast  with 


LIFE  OF  HORACE. 


7 


the  luxury  and  vice  of  imperial  Rome.  Of  his 
mother  no  mention  occurs,  directly  or  indirectly, 
throughout  his  poems.  This  could  scarcely  have 
happened,  had  she  not  died  while  he  was  very 
young.  He  appears  also  to  have  been  an  only 
child.  No  doubt  he  had  at  an  early  age  given  evi- 
dence of  superior  powers ;  and  to  this  it  may  have 
been  in  some  measure  owing,  that  his  father  re- 
solved to  give  him  a  higher  education  than  could 
be  obtained  under  a  provincial  schoolmaster,  and, 
although  ill  able  to  afford  the  expense,  took  him  to 
Rome  when  about  twelve  years  old,  and  gave  him 
the  best  education  which  the  capital  could  supply. 
No  money  was  spared  to  enable  the  boy  to  keep 
his  position  among  his  fellow-scholars  of  the  higher 
ranks.  He  was  waited  on  by  numerous  slaves,  as 
though  he  were  the  heir  to  a  considerable  fortune. 
At  the  same  time  he  was  not  allowed  to  feel  any 
shame  for  his  own  order,  or  to  aspire  to  a  position 
which  he  was  unequal  to  maintain.  His  father 
taught  him  to  look  forward  to  filling  some  situation 
akin  to  that  in  which  he  had  himself  acquired  a 
competency,  and  to  feel  that  in  any  sphere  culture 
and  self-respect  must  command  influence,  and  af- 
ford the  best  guarantee  for  happiness.  Under  the 
stern  tutorage  of  Orbilius  Pupillus,  a  grammarian 
of  high  standing,  richer  in  reputation  than  gold, 
whose  undue  exercise  of  the  rod  the  poet  has  con- 
demned to  a  bad  immortality,  he  learned  grammar, 
and  became  familiar  with  the  earlier  Latin  writers, 
and  with  Homer.    He  also  acquired  such  other 


8 


LIFE  OF  HORACE. 


branches  of  instruction  as  were  usually  learned  by 
the  sons  of  Romans  of  the  higher  ranks.  But, 
•what  was  of  still  more  importance,  during  this  criti- 
cal period  of  his  first  introduction  to  the  seductions 
of  the  capital,  he  enjoyed  the  advantage  of  hia 
father's  personal  superintendence,  and  of  a  careful 
moral  training.  His  father  went  with  him  to  all 
his  classes,  and,  being  himself  a  man  of  shrewd 
observation  and  natural  humour,  he  gave  his  son's 
studies  a  practical  bearing,  by  directing  his  atten- 
tion to  the  follies  and  vices  of  the  luxurious  and 
dissolute  society  around  him,  and  showing  their 
incompatibility  with  the  dictates  of  reason  and 
common  sense.  From  this  admirable  father  Hor- 
ace appears  to  have  gathered  many  of  "  the  rug- 
ged maxims  hewn  from  life,"  with  which  his  works 
abound,  and  also  to  have  inherited  that  manly  in- 
dependence for  which  he  was  remarkable,  and 
which,  while  assigning  to  all  ranks  their  due  influ- 
ence and  respect,  never  either  overestimates  or 
compromises  its  own.  Under  the  homely  exterior 
of  the  Apulian  freedman  we  recognize  the  soul  of 
the  gentleman.  His  influence  on  his  son  was  man- 
ifestly great.  In  the  full  maturity  of  his  powers 
Horace  penned  a  tribute  to  his  worth,*  in  terms 
which  prove  how  often  and  how  deeply  he  had  oc- 
casion in  after-life  to  be  grateful  for  the  bias  thus 
early  communicated.    His  father's  character  had 


*  For  a  translation  of  the  passage  in  the  Sixth  Satire  of  the 
First  Book,  here  referred  to,  see  note,  infra,  p.  283. 


OFE  OF  HORACE. 


9 


given  a  tone  and  strength  to  his  own  which,  in  the 
midst  of  manifold  temptations,  had  kept  him  true 
to  himself  and  to  his  genius. 

At  what  age  Horace  lost  his  father  is  uncertain 
Most  probably  this  event  occurred  before  he  left 
Rome  for  Athens,  to  complete  his  education  in  the 
Greek  literature  and  philosophy,  under  native 
teachers.  This  he  did  some  time  between  the  age 
of  seventeen  and  twenty.  At  Athens  he  found 
many  young  men  of  the  leading  Roman  families  — 
Bibulus,  Messala,  the  younger  Cicero,  and  others — ■ 
engaged  in  the  same  pursuits  with  himself.  His 
works  prove  him  to  have"  been  no  careless  student 
of  the  classics  of  Grecian  literature,  and,  with  a 
natural  enthusiasm,  he  made  his  first  poetical  es- 
says in  their  flexible  and  noble  language.  His 
usual  good  sense,  however,  soon  caused  him  to 
abandon  the  hopeless  task  of  emulating  the  Greek 
writers  on  their  own  ground,  and  he  directed  his 
efforts  to  transfusing  into  his  own  language  some 
of  the  grace  and  melody  of  these  masters  of  song. 
In  the  political  lull  between  the  battle  of  Pharsaliar 
a.  u.  c.  706  (b.  c.  48),  and  the  death  of  Julius 
Caesar,  A.  u.  c.  710  (b.  c.  44),  Horace  was  enabled 
to  devote  himself  without  interruption  to  the  tran- 
quil pursuits  of  the  scholar.  But  when,  after  the 
latter  event,  Brutus  came  to  Athens,  and  the  pa- 
trician youth  of  Rome,  fired  with  zeal  for  the  cause 
of  republican  liberty,  joined  his  standard,  Horace, 
infected  by  the  general  enthusiasm,  accepted  a 
military  command  in  the  army  which  was  destined 
1*   


10 


LIFE  OF  HORACE. 


to  encounter  the  legions  of  Anthony  and  Gctavius. 
His  rank  was  that  of  tribune,  a  position  of  so  much 
importance,  that  he  must  have  been  indebted  for 
it  either  to  the  personal  friendship  of  Brutus  or  to 
an  extraordinary  dearth  of  officers,  as  he  was  not 
only  without  experience  or  birth  to  recommend 
him,  but  possessed  no  particular  aptitude,  physical 
or  moral,  for  a  military  life.  His  appointment 
excited  jealousy  among  his  brother  officers,  who 
considered  that  the  command  of  a  Roman  legion 
should  have  been  reserved  for  men  of  nobler  blood ; 
and  here  probably  he  first  came  into  direct  collision 
with  the  aristocratic  prejudices  which  the  training 
of  his  father  had  taught  him  to  defy,  and  which,  at 
a  subsequent  period,  grudged  to  the  freedman's  son 
the  friendship  of  the  emperor  and  of  Maecenas. 
At  the  same  time  he  had  manifestly  a  strong  party 
of  friends,  who  had  learned  to  appreciate  his  ge- 
nius and  attractive  qualities.  It  is  certain  that  he 
secured  the  esteem  of  his  commanders,  and  bore  an 
active  part  in  the  perils  and  difficulties  of  the  cam- 
paign, which  terminated  in  the  total  defeat  of  the 
republican  party  at  Philippi,  a.  u.  c.  712  (b.  c.  42). 
A  playful  allusion  by  himself  to  the  events  of  that 
disastrous  field  (Odes,  II.  vii.  9  et  seq.)  has  been 
turned  by  many  of  his  commentators  into  an  ad- 
mission of  his  own  cowardice.  This  is  absurd. 
Such  a  confession  is  the  very  last  which  any  man, 
least  of  all  a  Roman,  would  make.  Addressing  his 
friend  Pompeius  Varius,  Horace  says  : 

u  With  thee  I  shared  Philippi's  headlopg  flight, 
My  shield  behind  ine  left,  which  was  not  well, 


LIFE  OF  HORACE. 


li 


When  all  that  brave  array  was  broke,  and  fell 
In  the  vile  dust  full  many  a  towering  wight.' * 

That  Archilochus  and  Alcasus  ran  away  on  the 
field  of  battle,  leaving  their  shields  behind  them, 
may  or  may  not  be  true  ;  but,  however  anxious  to 
rank  with  them  *  as  poets,  Horace  was  not  likely  to 
carry  the  parallel  into  details  disgraceful  to  his 
manhood.  An  allusion,  like  the  above,  to  the  loss 
of  his  shield,  could  only  have  been  dropped  by  a 
man  who  felt  that  he  had  done  his  duty,  and  that 
it  was  known  he  had  done  it.  The  lines  may  thus 
be  safely  regarded,  according  to  the  views  of  Les- 
sing  and  others,  as  a  not  ungraceful  compliment  to 
his  friend,  who  continued  the  struggle  against  the 
triumvirate  with  the  party  who  threw  themselves 
into  the  fleet  of  Sextus  Pompeius.  This  interpre- 
tation is  confirmed  by  the  language  of  the  next 
verse,  where,  in  the  same  spirit,  he  applies  the  epi- 
thet "paventem"  to  himself. 

"  But  me,  poor  trembler,  swift  Mercurius  bore, 
Wrapp'd  in  a  cloud  through  all  the  hostile  din, 
While  war's  tumultuous  eddies,  closing  in, 
Swept  thee  away  into  the  strife  once  more." 

It  was  no  discredit  to  Horace  to  have  despaired  of 
a  cause  which  its  leaders  had  given  up.  After  the 
suicide  of  Brutus  and  Cassius,  the  continuance  of 
the  contest  was  hopeless ;  and  Horace  may  in  his 
short  military  career  have  seen,  in  the  jealousy  and 
selfish  ambition  of  many  of  his  party,  enough  to 
make  him  suspicious  of  success,  even  if  that  had 
been  attainable.    Republicans  who  sneered  at  the 


12 


LIFE  OF  HORACE. 


freedman's  son  were  not  likely  to  found  any  system 
of  liberty  worthy  of  the  name. 

On  his  way  back  to  Italy,  Horace  narrowly  es- 
caped shipwreck  off  Cape  Palinurus,  on  the  coast 
of  Sicily,  an  incident  to  which  several  allusions  will 
be  found  in  his  Odes  ;  *  and  he  reached  home,  only 
to  find  his  paternal  acres  confiscated.  His  life  was 
spared,  but  nothing  was  left  him  to  sustain  it  but 
his  pen  and  his  good  spirits.  He  had  to  write  for 
bread,  —  Paupertas  impulit  auclax  ut  versus  facerem, 
(Epist.  II.  ii.  51,)  —  and  in  so  doing  he  appears  to 
have  acquired  not  only  considerable  repute,  but 
also  sufficient  means  to  purchase  the  place  of  scribe 
in  the  Quaestor's  office,  a  sort  of  sinecure  clerkship 
of  the  Treasury,  which  he  continued  to  hold  for 
many  years,  if  not,  indeed,  to  the  close  of  his  life. 
It  was  upon  his  return  to  Rome  that  he  made  the 
acquaintance  of  Virgil  and  Varius,  who  were  al- 
ready famous,  and  to  them  he  was  indebted  for  his 
introduction  to  Maecenas.  The  particulars  of  hia 
first  interview  with  his  patron  he  has  himself  re- 
corded. (Sat.  I.  vi.  55  et  seq.)  It  is  a  curious  cir- 
cumstance in  the  history  of  a  friendship,  among  the 
closest  and  most  affectionate  on  record,  that  nine 
months  elapsed  after  their  meeting  before  Maece- 
nas again  summoned  the  poet  to  his  house,  and  en- 
rolled him  in  the  list  of  his  intimate  friends.  This 


*  It  is  quite  possible  that  this  incident  may  have  occurred 
when  Horace  was  on  his  way  to  Greece,  or  on  some  subsequent 
occasion,  when  he  was  going  for  health  or  pleasure  to  Velia  or 
Tarentuin.    There  is  no  conclusive  evidence  as  to  the  date. 


LIFE  OF  HORACE. 


13 


event  took  place  in  the  third  year  after  the  battle 
of  Philippi ;  and,  as  the  only  claim  of  Horace,  the 
man  of  humble  origin,  and  the  retainer  of  a  defeat- 
ed party,  to  the  notice  of  the  minister  of  Augustus 
must  have  been  his  literary  reputation,  it  is  obvious 
that  even  at  this  early  period  he  had  established 
his  position  among  the  wits  and  men  of  letters  in 
the  capital.  The  acquaintance  rapidly  ripened  into 
mutual  esteem.  It  secured  the  position  of  the  poet 
in  society,  and  the  generosity  of  the  statesman 
placed  him  above  the  anxieties  of  a  literary  life. 
Throughout  the  intimate  intercourse  of  thirty  years 
which  ensued,  there  was  no  trace  of  condescension 
on  the  one  hand,  nor  of  servility  on  the  other. 
Maecenas  gave  the  poet  a  place  next  his  heart. 
He  must  have  respected  the  man  who  never  used 
his  influence  to  obtain  those  favours  which  were 
within  the  disposal  of  the  emperor's  minister,  who 
cherished  an  honest  pride  in  his  own  station,  and 
who  could  be  grateful  without  being  obsequious. 
Horace  is  never  weary  of  acknowledging  how  much 
he  owes  to  his  friend.  When  he  praises  him,  it  is 
without  flattery.  When  he  soothes  his  anxieties,  or 
calms  his  fears,  the  words  glow  with  unmistakable 
sincerity.  When  he  resists  his  patron's  wishes,  he 
is  firm  without  being  ungracious.  When  he  sports 
with  his  foibles,  he  is  familiar  without  the  slightest 
shade  of  impertinence. 

By  Maecenas  Horace  was  introduced  to  Octavius, 
most  probably  soon  after  the  period  just  referred 
to.    In  A.  u.  c.  717,  a  year  after  Horace  had  been 


14 


LIFE  OF  HORACE. 


admitted  into  the  circle  of  his  friends,  Maecenas 
went  to  Brundusium,  charged  by  Octavius  to  ne- 
gotiate a  treaty  with  Marcus  Antonius.  On  this 
journey  he  was  accompanied  by  Horace,  who  has 
left  a  graphic  record  of  its  incidents.  (Sat.  I.  v.) 
It  is  probable  that  on  this  occasion,  or  about  this 
time,  the  poet  was  brought  to  the  notice  of  the 
future  emperor.  Between  the  time  of  his  return 
from  this  journey  and  the  year  722,  Horace,  who 
had  in  the  mean  time  given  to  the  world  many  of 
his  poems,  including  the  ten  Satires  of  the  first 
book,  received  from  Maecenas  the  gift  of  the  Sabine 
farm,  which  at  once  afforded  him  a  competency 
and  all  the  pleasures  of  a  country  life.  The  gift 
was  a  slight  one  for  Maecenas  to  bestow,  but  he  no 
doubt  made  it  as  the  fittest  and  most  welcome  which 
he  could  offer  to  his  friend.  It  made  Horace  hap- 
py. It  gave  him  leisure  and  amusement,  and  op- 
portunities for  that  calm  intercourse  with  nature 
which  he  "  needed  for  his  spirit's  health."  Never 
was  a  gift  better  bestowed  or  better  requited.  It 
at  once  prompted  much  of  that  poetry  which  has 
made  Maecenas  famous,  and  has  afforded  ever  new 
delight  to  successive  generations.  The  Sabine  farm 
was  situated  in  the  valley  of  Ustica,  about  twelve 
miles  from  Tibur  (Tivoli),  and,  among  its  other 
charms,  possessed  the  valuable  attraction  for  Hor- 
ace, that  it  was  within  an  easy  distance  of  Rome. 
When  his  spirits  wanted  the  stimulus  of  society,  or 
the  bustle  of  the  capital,  which  they  often  did,  his 
ambling  mule  could  speedily  convey  him  thither ; 
and  when  jaded  on  the  other  hand  by 


LIFE  OF  HORACE. 


15 


The  noise,  and  strife,  and  questions  wearisome, 
And  the  vain  splendours  of  imperial  Rome, 

he  could  by  the  same  easy  means  of  transport,  in  a 
few  hours  bury  himself  among  the  hills,  and  there, 
under  the  shadow  of  his  favorite  Lucretilis,  or  by 
the  banks  of  the  Digentia,  either  stretch  himself 
to  dream  upon  the  grass,  lulled  by  the  murmurs  of 
the  stream,  or  look  after  the  culture  of  his  fields, 
and  fancy  himself  a  farmer.  The  site  of  this  farm 
has  been  pretty  accurately  ascertained,  and  it  is  at 
the  present  day  a  favourite  resort  of  travellers, 
especially  of  Englishmen,  who  visit  it  in  such  num- 
bers, and  trace  its  features  with  so  much  enthu- 
siasm, that  the  resident  peasantry,  "  who  cannot 
conceive  of  any  other  source  of  interest  in  one 
so  long  dead  and  unsainted,  than  that  of  co-patriot- 
ism or  consanguinity,"  believe  Horace  to  have  been 
an  Englishman.*  The  property  was  of  moderate 
size,  and  produced  corn,  olives,  and  wine,  but  was 
not  highly  cultivated.  Here  Horace  spent  a  con- 
siderable part  of  every  year.  The  Sabine  farm 
was  very  retired,  being  about  four  miles  from  Yaria 
(Vico  Yaro),  the  nearest  town,  well  covered  with 
timber,  and  traversed  by  a  small  but  sparkling 
stream.  It  gave  employment  to  five  families  of 
free  coloni,  who  were  under  the  superintendence 
of  a  bailiff ;  and,  besides  these,  eight  slaves  were 
attached  to  the  poet's  establishment.    With  his 


*  See  Letter  by  Mr.  Dennis.  Milman's  Horace,  London,  1849, 
p.  109. 


16 


LIFE  OF  HORACE. 


inexpensive  habits  this  little  property  was  sufficient 
for  all  his  wants.  He  describes  himself  as  Satis 
heatus  unicis  Sabinis, 

With  what  I  have  completely  blest, 
My  happy  little  Sabine  nest. 

Odes y  B.  IT.  18.  Here  he  could  entertain  a  stray 
friend  from  town,  —  his  patron  Maecenas,  upon 
occasion,  —  and  the  delights  of  this  agreeable  re- 
treat and  the  charm  of  the  poet's  society,  were 
doubtless  more  than  a  compensation  for  the  plain 
fare  or  the  thin  home-grown  wine,  Vile  Sabinum, 
with  which  its  resources  alone  enabled  him  to  re- 
gale them. 

The  life  of  Horace  from  the  time  of  his  intimacy 
with  Maecenas  appears  to  have  been  one  of  compar- 
ative ease  and  of  great  social  enjoyment.  Augustus 
soon  admitted  him  to  his  favour,  and,  according  to 
the  memoir  by  Suetonius,  ultimately  sought  to  at- 
tach him  to  his  person  in  the  capacity  of  secretary- 
This  offer  Horace  was  prudent  and  firm  enough  to 
decline ;  while  at  the  same  time  he  had  the  tact 
not  to  offend  the  master  of  the  world  by  his  refusal. 
To  the  close  of  his  life  his  favour  at  court  continued 
without  a  cloud.  Augustus  not  only  liked  the  man, 
but  entertained  a  profound  admiration  for  the  poet. 
Believing  in  the  immortality  of  his  writings,  it  was 
natural  the  emperor  should  cultivate  the  good  will 
and  seek  to  secure  the  "  deathless  meed "  of  his 
favourite's  song.  That  Horace  had  fought  with 
Brutus  against  him  did  not  operate  to  his  prejudice. 
To  have  espoused  the  cause,  and  enjoyed  the  con- 


LIFE  OF  HORACE. 


17 


fidence  of  one  whose  nobility  of  purpose  his  ad- 
versaries never  scrupled  to  acknowledge,  formed, 
indeed,  in  itself  a  claim  upon  his  successful  rival's 
esteem.  Horace  was  no  renegade ;  he  was  not 
ashamed  of  the  past,  and  Maecenas  and  Augustus 
were  just  the  men  to  respect  him  for  his  indepen- 
dence, and  to  like  him  the  better  for  it. ,  They 
could  appreciate  his  superiority  to  the  herd  of  par- 
asites and  time-servers  around  them ;  and  like  all 
the  greatest  actors  on  the  political  stage,  they  were 
above  the  petty  rancours  of  party  jealousy,  or  the 
desire  to  enfore  a  renunciation  of  convictions  oppo- 
site to  their  own.  Doubtless  it  was  by  never  stoop- 
ing to  them  unduly  that  Horace  secured  their 
esteem,  and  maintained  himself  upon  a  footing  of 
equality  with  them,  as  nearly  as  the  difference  of 
rank  would  allow.  There  is  no  reason  to  suspect 
Horace,  in  the  praises  which  he  has  recorded  of 
Augustus,  either  of  insincerity  or  sycophancy.  He 
was  able  to  contrast  the  comparative  security  of 
life  and  property,  the  absence  of  political  turmoil, 
and  the  development  of  social  ease  and  happiness, 
which  his  country  enjoyed  under  the  masterly  ad- 
ministration of  Augustus,  with  the  disquietude  and 
strife  under  which  it  had  languished  for  so  man}' 
years.  The  days  of  a  republic  had  gone  by,  and 
an  enlightened  despotism  must  have  been  wel- 
comed by  a  country  shaken  by  a  long  period  of 
civil  commotion,  and  sick  of  seeing  itself  played  for 
as  the  stake  of  reckless  and  ambitious  men.  He 
was  near  enough  to  the  councils  of  the  world's 

B 


13 


LIFE  OF  HORACE. 


master  to  understand  his  motives  and  to  appreciate 
his  policy;  and  his  intimate  personal  intercourse 
with  both  Augustus  and  Maecenas  no  doubt  en- 
abled him  to  do  fuller  justice  both  to  their  in- 
tentions and  their  capacity,  than  was  possible  per- 
haps to  an}'  other  man  of  his  time. 

The  envy  which  his  intimacy  with  these  two 
foremost  men  of  all  the  world  for  a  time  excited  in 
Roman  society  by  degrees  gave  way,  as  years  ad- 
vanced, and  the  causes  of  their  esteem  came  to  be 
better  understood.  Their  favour  did  not  spoil  him. 
He  was  ever  the  same  kindly,  urbane,  and  simple 
man  of  letters  he  had  originally  been,  never  pre- 
suming upon  his  position,  nor  looking  superciliously 
on  others  less  favoured  than  himself.  At  all  times 
generous  and  genial,  years  only  mellowed  his  wis- 
dom, and  gave  a  finer  polish  to  his  verse.  The  un- 
affected sincerity  of  his  nature,  and  the  rich  vein  of 
his  genius,  made  him  courted  by  the  rich  and 
noble.  (  Odes,  II.  xviii.  9  et  seq.)  He  mixed  on 
easy  terms  with  the  choicest  society  of  Rome,  and 
what  must  that  society  have  been,  which  included 
Virgil,  Varius,  Plotius,  Tibullus,  Pollio,  and  a  host 
of  others,  who  were  not  only  ripe  scholars,  but  had 
borne  and  were  bearing  a  leading  part  in  the  great 
actions  and  events  of  that  memorable  epoch  ? 

It  is  to  this  period  that  the  competition  of  his 
principal  odes  is  to  be  attributed.  To  these,  of  all 
his  writings,  Horace  himself  appears  to  have  as- 
cribed the  greatest  value,  and,  if  we  are  to  read 
literally  the  language  of  the  last  odes  of  the  Second 


LIFE  OF  HORACE. 


10 


and  Third  Books,  to  havfc  rested  upon  them  his 
claims  to  posthumous  fame.  They  were  the  result 
of  great  labor,  as  he  himself  indicates :  "  Operosa 
parvus  Carmina  Jingo"  (Odes,  IV.  ii.  31);  and  yet 
they  bear  pre-eminently  the  charm  of  simplicity  and 
ease.  He  was  the  first  to  mould  the  Latin  tongue 
to  the  Greek  lyric  measures ;  and  his  success  in 
this  difficult  task  may  be  estimated  from  the  fact 
that,  as  he  was  the  first,  so  was  he  the  greatest  of 
the  Roman  lyrists.  It  has  become  the  fashion  with 
certain  grammarians  of  late  years  to  decry  his  ver- 
sification as  defective.  It  may  be  so,  but  we  would 
rather  follow  the  opinions  of  his  contemporaries  and 
countrymen  on  this  point.  Ovid  expressed  a  dif- 
ferent opinion  in  the  well-known  lines : 

Et  tenuit  nostras  numerosus  Horatius  awes, 
Dum  ferit  Ausonia  carmina  culta  lyra. 

IV.  Trist.  Eieg.  X.  49 
Oft  on  Horatius'  tuneful  strains  I  've  hung, 
Whilst  to  his  sweet  Ausonian  lyre  he  sung 

Quinctilian's  criticism  upon  the  Odes  can  scarce- 
ly be  improved  :  "  Lyricorum  Horatius  fere  solus 
legi  dignus.  Nam  et  insurgit  aliquando,  et  plenus 
est  jucunditatis  et  gratise,  et  variis  figuris,  et  verbis 
felicissime  audax."  In  this  airy  and  playful  grace, 
in  happy  epithets,  in  variety  of  imagery,  and 
exquisite  felicity  of  expression,  the  Odes  are  still 
unsurpassed  among  the  writings  of  any  period  or 
language.  It  is  no  doubt  true  that  only  in  a  few 
instances  do  they  rise  to  grandeur  of  thought,  or  are 
marked  by  a  high  strain  of  emotion  or  of  imagina- 


20 


LIFE  OF  HORACE. 


tive  expression  ;  but  if  they  want  for  the  most  part 
the  inspiration  of  a  great  motive,  or  the  fervour  and 
resonance  of  the  finest  lyrics  of  Greece,  they  pos- 
sess in  perfection  the  power  of  painting  an  image 
or  expressing  a  thought  in  the  fewest  and  fittest 
words,  combined  with  a  melody  of  cadence  al- 
ways delightful.  It  is  these  qualities  and  a  pre- 
vailing vein  of  genial  and  sober  wisdom,  which  im- 
bue them  with  a  charm  quite  peculiar,  and  have 
given  them  a  hold  upon  the  minds  of  educated 
men,  which  no  change  of  taste  has  shaken.  Theix 
beauty  of  expression  is  indeed  apt  to  blind  the 
reader,  upon  occasion,  to  the  poverty  of  idea  and 
essentially  prosaic  turn  of  many  of  the  Odes.  Strip 
them  of  their  dress,  indeed,  and  their  charm  van- 
ishes. That  even  the  best  are  inferior  to  his  Greek 
models  is  not  to  be  wondered  at.  Even  although 
Horace  had  possessed  the  genius  of  Pindar  or 
Sappho,  it  is  doubtful  whether,  writing  as  he  did  in 
an  artificial  language,  which  he  was  compelled  to 
make  more  artificial  by  the  adoption  of  Greek 
forms  and  idioms,  he  could  have  found  an  adequate 
utterance  for  his  inspiration.  But  to  neither  of 
these  was  his  genius  akin ;  and  that  good  sense, 
which  is  his  great  characteristic,  withheld  him  from 
ever  either  soaring  too  high  or  attempting  to  sustain 
his  flight  too  long.  His  power  of  passion  is  limited, 
and  his  strokes  of  pathos  are  few  and  slight.  His 
deepest  tones  are  struck,  when  the  decay  of  morals, 
and  the  selfish  passions  of  faction,  inspire  him  with 
indignation,  or  sadden  him  into  despair.    On  these 


LIFE  OF  HORACE. 


21 


subjects  lie  felt  intensely,  and  wrote  with  all  the 
energy  and  force  of  strong  conviction  and  passion- 
ate feeling.  The  individual  man  then  becomes 
merged  in  the  greatness  of  the  theme  ;  but  in  gen- 
eral he  plays  with  his  subject  like  the  skilful  artist, 
rather  than  the  poet,  who  seeks  in  lyrical  verse  the 
natural  vent  for  his  emotions.  Rarely  indeed  do 
we  lose  sight  of  the  poet  himself  in  these  Odes. 
This  quality,  while  it  is  fatal  to  lyric  poetry  of  the 
highest  class,  helps,  however,  to  heighten  the  charm 
of  the  majority  of  them,  especially  those  which 
are  devoted  to  his  friends,  or  which  breathe  the 
delight  with  which  the  contact  with  the  ever  fresh 
beauties  of  natural  scenery  inspired  him.  Into 
these  he  throws  his  whole  heart,  and  in  them  we 
feel  the  fascination  which  made  him  beloved  by 
those  who  came  within  the  circle  of  his  personal 
influence,  and  which  makes  him  as  it  were  the  well 
known  and  intimate  friend  of  all  to  whom  his  writ- 
ings are  a  familiar  study. 

Horace  was  not  and  could  not  have  been  a 
national  poet.  He  wrote  only  for  cultivated  men, 
and  under  the  shadow  of  a  court.  Beyond  a  very 
narrow  circle  his  works  could  not  have  been  read. 
The  very  language  in  which  he  wrote  must  have 
been  unintelligible  to  the  people,  and  he  had  none 
of  those  popular  sympathies  which  inspire  the  lyrics 
of  Burns  or  Beranger.  The  Roman  populace  of 
his  time  was  perhaps  as  little  likely  to  command 
his  respect  as  any  which  the  world  has  ever  seen  ; 
and  there  was  no  people,  in  the  sense  in  which  we 


22  LIFE  OF  HORACE. 


understand  the  word,  to  appeal  to.  And  yet  Hor- 
ace has  many  points  in  common  with  Burns.  "  A 
man's  a  man  for  a'  that,"  in  the  whole  vein  of  its 
sentiment  is  thoroughly  Horatian.  In  their  large 
and  genial  views  of  life  they  are  closely  akin ;  but 
the  fiery  glow  of  the  peasant  poet  is  subdued  to  a 
temperate  heat  in  the  gentler  and  physically  less 
energetic  nature  of  Horace. 

In  his  amatory  verses  the  same  distinction  is  visi- 
ble. Horace  writes  much  about  love ;  but  he  is 
never  thoroughly  in  love.  None  of  his  erotic 
poems  are  vivified  by  those  gushes  of  emotion 
which  animate  the  love  poetry  of  the  poets  we 
have  named  and  of  other  modern  song-writers. 
Never  indeed  was  love  less  ideal  or  intense  in  a 
poet  of  unquestionable  power.  Horace  is  not  in- 
sensible to  feminine  attractiveness.  He  had  too 
much  taste  for  that.  Indeed  no  writer  hits  off  with 
greater  neatness  the  portrait  of  a  beauty,  or  con- 
jures up  more  skilfully  before  his  reader  an  image 
of  seductive  grace.  But  his  tone  is  more  that  of  a 
pleased  spectator  than  of  one  who  has  loved  deeply. 
Even  in  what  may  be  assumed  to  be  his  earliest 
poems,  the  fire  of  genuine  passion  is  wanting.  Hor- 
ace's ardour  seems  never  to  have  risen  above  the 
transient  flush  of  desire.  At  no  period  of  his  life, 
so  far  as  can  be  inferred  from  his  writings,  was  he 
a  man  to  suffer  from 

the  cruel  madness  of  love, 
The  honey  of  poison  flowers,  and  all  the  measureless  ill. 

He  was  as  much  a  stranger  to  the  headlong  pas- 


LIFE  OF  HORACE. 


23 


sion  of  the  sensualist,  as  to  the  trembling  reverence 
of  the  devotee.  Of  all  that  wide  realm  of  deep 
emotion  and  imaginative  tenderness,  of  which  oc- 
casional traces  are  to  be  found  in  the  literature  of 
antiquity,  and  with  which  modern  poetry,  from 
Dante  to  Tennyson,  is  familiar,  no  hint  is  to  be 
found  in  the  Odes  of  Horace.  Parabilem  amo 
Venerem  facilemque  is  the  Alpha  and  Omega  of 
his  personal  creed.  In  his  view,  the  favouring 
smiles  of  the  fairest  face  were  not  worth  the  pain 
its  owner's  caprices  could  inflict.  Woman,  as  he 
knew  her,  was  apt  to  be  capricious.  He  had  suf- 
fered from  the  fickleness  of  more  than  one  mis- 
tress, but  he  was  too  honest  not  to  feel  that  they 
had  probably  only  forestalled  him  in  inconstancy. 
Doubtless  he  had  "  sighed  and  looked,  sighed  and 
looked  "  at  many  a  pair  of  fine  eyes  in  vain,  and 
found  himself  recalling  to  his  fancy  more  often 
than  philosopher  should  a  rosy  underlip,  or  "  the 
tresses  of  Neaera's  hair ;  "  but  if  they  slipped  from 
his  grasp,  the  pang,  we  may  be  tolerably  sure,  was 
transient. 

From  these  he  escaped  heart-free,  with  the  least  little  touch 
of  spleen. 

He  seems  to  have  known  by  experience  just 
enough  of  the  tendei  passion  to  write  pretty  verses 
about  it,  and  to  rally,  not  unsympathetically,  such 
of  his  friends  as  had  not  escaped  so  lightly  from  its 
flame.  The  attempt  to  make  out  the  Lydias  and 
Lalages,  the  Lyces  and  Phrynes  of  his  Odes  as  real 
objects  of  attachment  is  one  of  the  many  follies  in 


24 


LIFE  OF  HORACE. 


which  his  commentators  have  wasted  much  dreary 
labour.  Like  Beranger,  Horace  might,  no  doubt, 
have  sung  of  himself  in  his  youth,  — 

J  'avais  a  vingt  ans  une  folle  maitresse, 
Des  francs  amis,  et  Pamour  de  chansons. 

The  bona  Cinara  of  his  Odes  and  Satires  was  no 
ideal  personage ;  and  it  may  fairly  be  assumed  that 
his  many  agreeable  qualities  had  not  been  without 
their  influence  upon  other  beauties  equally  suscep- 
tible, if  not  equally  generous.  Militavit  non  sine 
gloria.  And  even  when  he  could  count  eight  lus- 
tres, despite  his  own  protest  (Ode  II.  4),  his  senses 
were  probably  not  dead  to  the  attractions  of  a  fine 
ancle,  or  a  pretty  face,  or  to  the  fascination  of  a 
sweet  smile,  a  musical  voice,  a  pleasant  wit,  an 
agreeable  temper,  or  graceful  habits.  But  his  pas- 
sions were  too  well  controlled,  and  his  love  of  ease 
too  strong,  to  admit  of  the  countless  flirtations  im- 
plied in  the  supposition  that  Glycera,  Myrtale,  and 
a  score  of  others,  were  actual  favourites  of  the 
bard.  The  Horace  of  the  Satires  and  Epistles,  the 
man  Horace  as  he  there  lives  for  us,  must  be  for- 
gotten before  we  can  adopt  such  a  conclusion.  To 
sing  of  beauty  has  always  been  the  poet's  privilege 
and  delight ;  and  to  record  the  lover's  pains  an 
easy  and  popular  theme.  Horace,  the  wit  and 
friend  of  wits,  fell  naturally  into  this  genial  strain, 
and  sang  of  love  and  beauty  according  to  his  fash- 
ion. Very  airy  and  playful  and  pleasant  is  that 
fashion,  and,  for  his  time,  in  the  main  compara- 


LIFE  OF  HORACE. 


25 


tively  pure  and  chaste ;  but  we  seek  in  vain  for 
the  tenderness,  the  negation  of  self,  and  the  pathos, 
which  are  the  soul  of  all  true  love  poetry.  "  His 
love  ditties,"  it  has  been  well  said,  "  are,  as  it  were, 
like  flowers,  beautiful  in  form,  and  rich  in  hues,  but 
without  the  scent  that  breathes  to  the  heart."  It 
is  certain  that  many  of  them  are  merely  imitations 
of  Greek  originals ;  pretty  cameos  cut  after  the 
antique. 

Horace's  Satires  and  Epistles  are  less  read,  yet 
they  are  perhaps  intrinsically  more  valuable  than  his 
lyric  poetry.  They  are  of  very  various  merit,  written 
at  different  periods  of  his  life,  and,  although  the 
order  of  their  composition  may  be  difficult  to  define 
with  certainty,  much  may  be  inferred,  even  from 
the  internal  evidence  of  style  and  subject,  as  to  the 
development  of  the  poet's  genius.  As  reflecting 
"  the  age  and  body  of  the  time,"  they  possess  the 
highest  historical  value.  Through  them  the  modern 
scholar  is  able  to  form  a  clearer  idea  in  all  probability 
of  the  state  of  society  in  Rome  in  the  Augustan  age 
than  of  any  other  phase  of  social  development  in 
the  history  of  nations.  Mingling,  as  he  did,  freely 
with  men  of  all  ranks  and  passions,  and  himself 
untouched  by  the  ambition  of  wealth  or  influence 
which  absorbed  them  in  the  struggle  of  society,  he 
enjoyed  the  best  opportunities  for  observation,  and  he 
used  them  diligently.  Horace's  observation  of  char- 
acter is  subtle  and  exact,  his  knowledge  of  the  heart 
is  profound,  his  power  of  graphic  delineation  great. 
A  genial  humour  plays  over  his  verses,  and  a  kindly 
2 


26 


LIFE  OF  HORACE. 


wisdom  dignifies  theni.  Never  were  the  maxims  of 
social  prudence  and  practical  good  sense  inculcated 
in  so  pleasing  a  form  as  in  the  Epistles.  The  vein 
of  his  satire  is  delicate  yet  racy ;  he  keeps  the  in- 
tellect on  the  alert,  and  amuses  the  fancy  while  he 
rarely  offends  by  indelicacy  or  outrages  by  coarse- 
ness. For  fierceness  of  invective,  or  loftiness  of 
moral  tone,  he  is  inferior  to  Juvenal ;  but  the  vices 
of  his  time  were  less  calculated  to  provoke  the 
"  saeva  indignatio  "  of  the  satirist  of  a  more  recent 
date.  He  deals  rather  with  the  weakness  and  fol- 
lies than  with  the  vices  or  crimes  of  mankind,  and 
his  appeals  are  directed  to  their  judgment  and  prac- 
tical sense  rather  than  to  their  conscience.  As  a 
living  and  brilliant  commentary  on  life,  as  a  store- 
house of  maxims  of  practical  wisdom,  couched  in 
language  the  most  apt  and  concise,  as  a  picture  of 
men  and  manners,  which  will  be  always  fresh  and 
always  true,  because  they  were  true  once,  and 
because  human  nature  will  always  reproduce  itself 
under  analogous  circumstances,  his  Satires,  and  still 
more  his  Epistles,  will  have  a  permanent  value  for 
mankind.  In  these,  as  in  his  Odes,  he  inculcates 
what  is  fitting  and  decorous,  and  tends  most  to  tran- 
quillity of  mind  and  body,  rather  than  the  severe 
virtues  of  a  high  standard  of  moral  purity.  To  live 
at  peace  with  the  world,  to  shun  the  extremes  of 
avarice,  luxury,  and  ambition,  to  outrage  none  of 
the  laws  of  nature,  to  enjoy  life  wisely,  and  not  to 
load  it  with  cares  which  the  lapse  of  a  few  brief  years 
will  demonstrate  to  be  foolishness,  is  very  nearly  the 


LIFE  OF  HORACE. 


27 


sum  of  his  philosophy.  Of  religion,  as  we  under- 
stand it,  he  had  little.  Although  himself  little  of 
a  practical  worshipper,  — parcus  deorum  cultor  et  in- 
frequent, —  he  respected  the  sincerity  of  others  in 
their  belief  in  the  old  gods.  But,  in  common  with 
the  more  vigorous  intellects  of  the  time,  he  had  out- 
grown the  effete  creed  of  his  countrymen,  lie  was 
content  to  use  it  for  poetical  purposes,  but  he  could 
not  accept  as  matter  of  belief  the  mythology,  about 
which  the  forms  of  the  contemporary  worship  still 
clustered. 

At  no  time  very  robust,  Horace's  health  appears 
to  have  declined  for  some  years  before  his  death. 
He  was  doomed  to  see  some  of  his  most  valued 
friends  drop  into  the  grave  before  him.  This  to 
him,  who  gave  to  friendship  the  ardour  which  other 
men  give  to  love,  was  the  severest  wound  that  time 
could  bring.  "  The  shocks  of  Chance,  the  blows  of 
Death "  smote  him  heavily  ;  and  the  failure  of 
youth,  and  spirits,  and  health,  in  the  inevitable  de- 
cay of  nature,  saddened  the  thoughtful  poet  in  his 
solitude,  and  tinged  the  gayest  society  with  melan- 
choly. The  loss  of  friends,  the  brothers  of  his  soul, 
of  Virgil,  Quinctilius,  Tibullus,  and  others,  and  ul- 
timately of  Maecenas,  without  that  hope  of  reunion 
which  springs  from  the  cheering  faith  which  was 
soon  afterwards  to  be  revealed  to  the  world,  must 
have  by  degrees  stripped  life  of  most  of  its  charms. 
Singula  de  nobis  anni  praedantur  euntes  (Epist.  II. 
ii.  55)  is  a  cheerless  reflection  to  all,  but  chiefly  to 
him  who  has  no  assured  hope  beyond  the  present 


28 


LIFE  OF  HORACE. 


time.  Maecenas's  health  was  a  source  of  deep 
anxiety  to  him  ;  and  one  of  the  most  exquisite  Odes 
(B.  II.  17),  addressed  to  that  valued  friend,  in  an- 
swer to  some  outburst  of  despondency,  while  it  ex- 
presses the  depth  of  the  poet's  regard,  bears  in  it 
the  tone  of  a  man  somewhat  weary  of  the  world :  — 

"  Ah  !  if  untimely  fate  should  snatch  thee  hence, 

Thee  of  my  soul  a  part, 
Why  should  I  linger  on,  with  deaden'd  sense, 

And  ever-aching  heart, 
A  worthless  fragment  of  a  fallen  shrine  ? 
No,  no !    One  day  beholds  thy  death  and  mine  ! 

"  Think  not  that  I  have  sworn  a  bootless  oath  ! 
Yes,  we  shall  go,  shall  go, 
Hand  linked  in  hand,  whene'er  thou  leadest,  both 
The  last  sad  road  below  !  " 

The  prophecy  seems  to  have  been  realized  almost 
to  the  letter.  The  same  year  (a.u.c.  746,  B.C.  8) 
witnessed  the  death  of  both  Horace  and  Maecenas. 
The  latter  died  in  the  middle  of  the  year,  bequeath- 
ing his  friend,  in  almost  his  last  words,  to  the  care 
of  Augustus :  Horatii  Flacci,  ut  mei,  esto  memor. 
On  the  2  7th  of  November,  when  he  was  on  the  eve 
of  completing  his  fifty-seventh  year,  Horace  himself 
died,  of  an  illness  so  sharp  and  sudden  that  he  was 
unable  to  make  his  will  in  writing.  He  declared 
it  verbally  before  witnesses,  leaving  to  Augustus 
the  little  which  he  possessed.  He  was  buried  on 
jhe  Esquiline  Hill,  near  his  patron  and  friend 
Maecenas. 

The  fame  of  Horace  was  at  once  established. 


*  LIFE  OF  HORACE. 


29 


Even  in  the  days  of  Juvenal  lie  shared  with  Virgil 
the  doubtful  honour  of  being  a  school-book.  (Juve- 
nal, Sat.  vii.  226.)  That  honour  he  still  enjoys  ;  but 
it  is  only  by  minds  matured  by  experience  and  re- 
flection that  Horace  can  be  thoroughly  appreciated. 
To  them  the  depth  of  his  observation  and  the  reach 
of  his  good  sense  are  made  daily  more  apparent ; 
and  the  verses,  which  charmed  their  fancy  or  de- 
lighted their  ear  in  youth,  became  the  counsellors 
of  their  manhood,  or  the  mirror  which  focalizes  for 
their  old  age  the  gathered  wisdom  of  a  lifetime. 
No  writer  is  so  often  quoted,  and  simply  because 
the  thoughts  of  none  are  more  pertinent  to  men's 
"  business  and  bosoms  "  in  the  concerns  of  every- 
day life,  amid  the  jostle  of  a  crowded  and  artificial 
state  of  society  ;  and  because  the  glimpses  of  na- 
ture, in  which  his  writings  abound,  come  with  the 
freshness  of  truth-,  alike  to  the  jaded  dweller  in 
cities,  and  to  those  who  can  test  them  clay  by  day 
**in  the  presence  of  nature  herself 

There  are  no  authentic  busts  or  medallions  of 
Horace,  and  his  descriptions  of  himself  are  vague. 
He  was  short  in  stature  ;  his  eyes  and  hair  were 
dark,  but  the  latter  was  early,  silvered  with  gray. 
He  suffered  at  one  time  from  an  affection  of  the 
eyes,  and  seems  to  have  been  by  no  means  robust 
in  constitution.  His  habits  were  temperate  and 
frugal,  as  a  rule,  although  he  was  far  from  insensi- 
ble to  the  charms  of  a  good  table  and  good  wine, 
heightening  and  heightened  by  the  zest  of*  good 
company.    But  he  seems  to  have  had  neither  the 


30 


LIFE   OF  HORACE. 


stomach  nor  the  taste  for  habitual  indulgence  in  the 
pleasures  of  the  table.  In  youth  he  was  hasty  and 
choleric,  but  placable  ;  and  to  the  last  ho  probably 
shared  in  some  degree  the  irritability  which  he  as- 
cribes to  his  class.  At  the  same  time,  if  his  writings 
be  any  index  to  his  mind,  his  temper  was  habitually 
sweet  and  well  under  control.  Like  most  playful 
men,  a  tinge  of  melancholy  coloured  his  life,  if  that 
is  to  be  called  melancholy  which  more  properly  is 
only  that  feeling  of  the  incompleteness  and  insuffi- 
ciency of  life  for  the  desires  of  the  soul,  which 
with  all  thoughtful  men  must  be  habitual.  Latterly 
he  became  corpulent,  and  sensitive  to  the  severity 
of  the  seasons,  and  sought  at  Baiae  and  Tivoli  the 
refreshment  or  shelter  which  his  mountain  retreat 
had  ceased  to  yield  to  his  delicate  frame. 

The  chronology  of  the  poems  of  Horace  has  been 
the  source  of  much  critical  controversy.  The  ear- 
lier labors  of  Bentley.  Masson,  Dacier,  and  Sana- 
don  have  been  followed  up  in  modern  times  by 
those  of  Passow,  Orelli.  YValekenaer,  Weber,  Grote 
fend,  and  Stallbaum  abroad,  and  of  Tate  and  Mil- 
man  at  home.  The  subject  is  of  importance  in  its 
bearings  on  the  poet's  biography  ;  and  the  general 
result  of  their  investigations  may  be  stated  as  fol- 
lows. The  Safires  and  most  of  the  Epochs  were 
first  in  the  order  of  composition,  having  been  writ- 
ten between  the  years  713  and  125,  after  the  return 
of  Horace  to  Rome,  and  before  the  close  of  the 
civil  wars  consequent  upon  the  defeat  of  Antony 
and  his  party.    The  two  first  books  of  Odes  ap- 


LIFE  OF  HORACE.  31 

peared  between  this  period  and  the  year  730. 
Then  followed  the  first  book  of  Epistles.  The 
third  book  of  Odes  appears  to  have  been  composed 
about  the  year  735,  the  Carmen  Secular e  in  737,  and 
the  fourth  book  of  Odes  between  737  and  741. 
The  second  book  of  Epistles  may  be  assigned  to 
the  period  between  741  and  746  ;  and  to  the  same 
period  may  be  ascribed  the  composition  of  the 
Epistle  to  ihe  Pisos. 

In  the  following  translations  the  Odes  have  been 
retained  in  the  order  in  which  they  appear  in  the 
common  editions,  without  any  attempt  at  chrono- 
logical arrangement.  Any  change  might  perplex 
the  ordinary  reader,  and,  for  historical  or  other 
purposes,  no  student  will  prosecute  his  researches 
in  a  translation. 


The  object  of  the  translator  has  been  to  convey 
to  the  mind  of  an  English  reader  the  impression,  as 
nearly  as  may  be,  which  the  originals  produce  upon 
his  own.  The  difficulties  of  such  a  task  are  endless. 
"  It  is  impossible,"  says  Shelley,  himself  one  of  the 
most  successful  of  translators,  "  to  represent  in  an- 
other language  the  melody  of  the  versification  ; 
even  the  volatile  strength  and  delicacy  of  the  ideas 
escape  in  the  crucible  of  translation,  and  the  reader 
is  surprised  to  find  a  caput  mortuum"  This  is  true 
in  the  case  even  of  languages  which  bear  an  affinity 


32  LIFE  OF  HORACE. 

to  our  own,  but  especially  true  where  Greek  or 
Latin  poetry  are  concerned.  No  competent  trans- 
lator will  satisfy  himself,  still  less  can  he  expect  to 
satisfy  others.  It  will  always  be  easy  for  the  critic 
to  demonstrate  that  Horace  is  untranslatable.  In 
a  strict  sense,  this  is  the  case  with  all  poetry,  es- 
pecially lyrical  poetry ;  and  no  one  is  likely  to 
be  so  thoroughly  convinced  of  this,  as  he  who  has 
persevered  to  the  end  in  an  attempt  to  translate  * 
the  Odes  of  Horace.  Still  what  has  been  will  be. 
The  attempt,  often  made,  will  be  as  often  renewed. 
Dulce  periculum  est.  The  very  difficulty  of  the  task 
makes  it  attractive.  Lovers  of  the  Venusian  bard 
will  go  on  from  time  to  time  striving  to  transfuse 
the  charm  of  his  manner  into  English  measures  ; 
and  the  noticeable  versions  of  Mr.  H.  G.  Robinson, 
Mr.  Whyte  Melville,  Mr.  F.  W.  Newman,  and 
Lord  Ravensworth,  all  published  within  the  last 
few  years,  show  that  the  production  of  a  Horace,  to 
meet  the  modern  views  of  what  a  translation  ought 
to  be,  is  still  a  prevailing  object  of  ambition  amongst 
English  scholars. 

The  present  version  has  grown  up  imperceptibly 
during  many  years,  having  been  nearly  finished 
before  the  idea  of  a  complete  version  occurred  to 
the  translator  as  a  thing  to  be  accomplished.  The 
form  of  verse  into  which  each  Ode  has  been  cast 
has  been  generally  selected  with  a  view  to  what 
might  best  reflect  its  prevailing  tone.  It  has  not 
always  been  possible,  however,  to  follow  this  indi- 
cation, where,  as  frequently  happens,  either  the 


LIFE  OF  HORACE.  SS 

names  of  persons  or  places,  often  most  intractable, 
but  always  important,  must  have  been  sacrificed, 
or  a  measure  selected  into  which  these  could  be 
interwoven.  To  be  as  literal  and  close  as  the  dif- 
ference between  the  languages  would  admit  has 
been  the  aim  throughout.  But  there  are  occasions, 
as  every  scholar  knows,  where  to  be  faithful  to  the 
letter  is  to  be  most  unfaithful  to  the  spirit  of  an 
author ;  and  where  to  be  close  is  to  be  hopelessly 
prosaic.  Phrases,  nay,  single  words  and  names,  full 
of  poetical  suggestive n ess  in  one  language,  are  bald, 
if  not  absolutely  without  significance,  in  another. 
Besides,  even  under  the  most  skilful  hands,  a 
thought  or  sentiment  must  at  times  be  expanded  or 
condensed  to  meet  the  necessity  of  the  stanza. 
The  triumph  of  the  translator  is  where  this  is 
effected  without  losing  any  of  the  significance,  or 
clashing  with  the  pervading  sentiment  of  the  origi- 
nal. Again,  a  point  of  great  difficulty  is  the  treat- 
ment of  the  lighter  odes,  —  mere  vers  de  society 
invested  by  the  language  for  us  with  a  certain 
stateliness,  but  which  were  probably  regarded  with 
a  very  different  feeling  by  the  small  contemporary 
circle  to  which  they  were  addressed.  To  catch  the 
tone  of  these,  to  be  light  without  being  flippant,  to 
be  playful  without  being  vulgar,  demands  a  deli- 
cacy of  touch  which  it  is  given  to  few  to  acquire, 
even  in  original  composition,  and  which  in  transla- 
tion is  all  but  unattainable. 

In  a  few  instances  where,  for  obvious  reasons,  a 
literal  reproduction  of  the  original  was  not  desir- 
2*  C 


34 


LIFE  OF  HORACE. 


able,  as  in  the  25th  Ode  of  the  First,  and  the  10th 
Ode  of  the  Fourth  Books,  and  in  occasional  pas- 
sages elsewhere,  the  translator  has  not  hesitated  to 
make  such  deviations  from  the  text  as  are  required 
by  the  purer  morals  of  the  present  day.  For  the 
same  reason,  the  8th  and  12th  Epodes  have  been 
altogether  omitted. 


BOOK  I. 


ODE  I. 


TO  M,ECENAS. 

Maecenas,  sprung  from  monarchs  old, 
Who  dost  my  fortunes  still  uphold, 
My  heart's  best  friend,  some  men  there  are, 
Who  joy  to  gather  with  the  car 
Olympic  dust ;  and  whom  the  goal 
By  hot  wheeis  clear'd,  that  round  it  roll, 
And  noble  palm,  can  elevate 
To  gods,  the  lords  of  earth's  estate. 

One  feels  his  breast  with  rapture  throb, 
If  the  Quiritians'  fickle  mob 
Raise  him,  'mid  brawl  and  civic  roar, 
To  honours  doubled  o'er  and  o'er  ; 
Another  if  he  store,  and  fill 
His  private  granaries,  until 
Their  teeming  area  contains 
The  harvests  of  all  Lybia's  plains. 

Him  that  delights  afield  to  moil, 
Tilling  his  old  paternal  soil, 
You  ne'er  could  tempt,  by  all  the  pelf 
Of  golden  Attalus  himself, 
With  Cyprian  keel  in  fear  to  sweep 
The  stormy-vext  Myrtoan  deep. 

The  merchant,  with  affright  aghast, 
When  Africus  with  furious  blast 
Lashes  the  Icarian  waves  to  foam, 
Extols  his  quiet  inland  home ; 


ODE  I.       TO  MAECENAS. 

But,  safe  in  harbour,  straight  equips 
Anew  his  tempest-batter'd  ships, 
By  no  disasters  to  be  taught 
Contentment  with  a  lowly  lot. 

And  there  be  some,  we  know,  are  fain 
Full  cups  of  Massic  old  to  drain, 
Nor  scorn  from  the  unbroken  day 
To  snatch  an  hour,  their  limbs  to  lay 
'Neath  leafy  arbutus,  or  dream 
Beside  some  lulling  fountain's  stream. 

The  camp  makes  many  a  heart  beat  high, 
The  trumpet's  call,  the  clarion's  cry, 
And  all  the  grim  array  of  war, 
Which  mothers'  fearful  hearts  abhor. 

Regardless  of  the  wife,  that  weeps 
At  home  for  him,  the  huntsman  keeps 
Abroad  through  cold  and  tempest  drear, 
If  his  staunch  hounds  have  track'd  the  deer, 
Or  by  the  meshes  rent  is  seen, 
Where  savage  Marsian  boar  hath  been. 

Me  doth  the  ivy's  wreathed  bough, 
Meet  guerdon  of  the  scholar's  brow, 
The  compeer  make  of  gods  supreme ! 
Me  the  dim  grove,  the  murmuring  stream, 
And  Nymphs  that  trip  with  Fauns  along, 
Dissever  from  the  vulgar  throng ; 
If  nor  Euterpe  hush  her  strain, 
Nor  Polyhymnia  disdain 
To  strike  for  me  her  Lesbian  lyre, 
And  fill  me  with  a  poet's  fire. 
Give  me  but  these,  and  rank  me  '  mong 
The  sacred  bards  of  lyric  song, 
I  '11  soar  beyond  the  lists  of  time, 
And  strike  the  stars  with  head  sublime. 


ODE  fl.     TO  AUGUSTUS  CiESAR. 


39 


ODE  II. 

TO  AUGUSTUS  OESAR. 

Enough,  enough  of  snow  and  direful  hail 
Hath  Jove  in  anger  shower'd  upon  the  land, 
And  launching  havoc  with  his  red  right  hand 

On  tower  and  temple,  made  the  city  quail,  — 

Made  all  the  nations  quail,  lest  Pyrrha's  age 

Should  come  again,  with  brood  of  monsters  strange, 
When  Proteus  drove  his  ocean-herd  to  range 

The  mountain  tops  in  wondrous  pilgrimage. 

The  yellow  Tiber,  with  its  waves  hurPd  back 
From  the  Etruscan  coast,  have  we  beheld 
Threaten  the  monuments  of  regal  eld, 

And  Vesta's  fane,  with  universal  wrack. 

Rising  in  ire,  to  avenge  his  Ilia's  plaint, 

He  bursts  his  bounds,  and,  stirr'd  through  all  his 
deeps, 

O'er  his  left  bank  the  uxorious  river  sweeps, 
Though  unapproved  by  Jove,  and  spurns  restraint 

Thinn'd  by  their  parents'  crimes,  our  youth  shall  heai 
I  low  Roman  against  Roman  bared  the  blade, 
Which  the  fierce  Persian  fitlier  low  had  laid, 

Shall  hear  how  kin  met  kin  in  conflict  drear. 


40 


ODE  II.     TO  AUGUSTUS  CLESAK, 


What  god  shall  we,  to  save  the  state  from  doom, 
Importune  ;  by  what  pray'r  shall  virgins  pure 
Their  Vesta's  ear  so  long  regardless  lure, 

To  listen  to  their  quired  hymns  ?    To  whom 

Will  Jove  assign  the  office  and  the  might 
To  expiate  our  guilt  ?    Oh  to  our  pray'r, 
Augur  Apollo,  here  at  length  repair, 

Veiling  in  clouds  thy  shoulders  ivory-white  t 

Or,  laughing  Erycina,  round  whose  head 
Boy  Cupid  nits  and  Mirth  on  airy  wing  ; 
Or,  on  thine  outcast  sons  if  thou  dost  fling 

Some  kindly  glances,  thou,  our  founder  dread 

Sated,  alas  f  with  war's  too  lengthened  sport ! 
Who  joy'st  in  gleaming  helms,  and  battle's  <fWj 
And,  foot  to  foot  with  foemen  dyed  in  gor<. 

The  Marsian's  flashing  eye,  and  fateful  port ' 

Or  else  do  thou,  sweet  Maia's  winged  child, 
Doffing  the  God,  descend  to  earth,  and  we«/ 
The  form  of  youth,  Caesar's  avenger,  there 

While  thou  abid'st,  submitting  to  be  styled ! 

Long,  long  to  heav'n  be  thy  return  delay'd, 

Long,  long  may'st  thou  well  pleased  beside  us  stay 
And  no  fell  air  waft  thee  from  earth  away 

At  our  dark  crimes  indignant  and  dismay'd ! 

Rather  lead  mighty  triumphs  here  as  now, 
Joy  to  be  call'd  our  Prince  and  Father  here, 
Nor  let  the  Median  unchastised  career 

Where  Romans  sway,  —  our  leader,  Caesar,  thou  t 


ode  in.   to  virgil's  ship 


41 


ODE  III. 

TO  THE  SHIP  IN  WHICH  VIRGIL  WAS  ABOUt 
TO  SAIL  FOR  GREECE. 

May  the  great  goddess-queen  of  Cyprus  isle, 

And  those  bright  cressets,  brothers  twin  of  Helen, 
And  he  that  rules  the  winds  propitious  smile, 

All  save  mild  zephyr  in  their  caverns  quelling, 
Thy  course,  O  bark,  directing  so,  that  thou 

May'st  waft  in  safety  to  Athene's  shore 
My  Virgil,  to  thy  care  intrusted  now, 

And  to  its  love  my  soul's  dear  half  restore  I 

In  oak  or  triple  brass  his  breast  was  mail'd, 

Who  first  committed  to  the  ruthless  deep 
His  fragile  skiff,  nor  inly  shrank  and  quail'd, 

To  hear  the  headlong  south-wind  fiercely  sweep, 
With  northern  blasts  to  wrestle  and  to  rave, 

Nor  fear'd  to  face  the  tristful  Hyades, 
And  the  wild  tyrant  of  the  Western  wave, 

That  lifts,  or  calms  at  will  the  restless  seas. 

What  form  of  death  could  daunt  his  soul,  who  view'd 

Ocean's  dread  shapes,  nor  turn'd  his  eyes  away, 
Its  surging  waves,  and  with  disaster  strew'd 

Thy  fated  rocks,  Acroceraunia  ? 
Vainly  hath  Jove  in  wisdom  land  from  land 

By  seas  dissever'd  wild  and  tempest-toss'd, 
If  vessels  bound,  despite  his  high  command, 

O'er  waters  purposed  never  to  be  cross'd. 


42  ode  hi.    to  virgil's  ship. 

Presumptuous  man,  in  insolence  of  soul, 

Sweeps  to  his  aim  through  sacrilege  and  crime  j 
Heavens  fire  for  us  the  bold  Prometheus  stole 

By  fraud  unhallow'd  in  the  olden  time  ; 
Then  wasting  agues,  hectic  fevers  smote 

The  earth,  and  hosts  of  new-born  terrors  spread ; 
And  Death,  till  then  forgetful  and  remote, 

Quicken'd  his  slow,  inevitable  tread ! 

On  wings  not  given  for  mortal  wearing  durst 
Vain  Daedalus  to  cleave  the  void  of  air ; 

Through  fateful  Acheron  Alcides  burst : 
Naught  is  too  arduous  for  man  to  dare. 

In  our  unbounded  folly  we  aspire 
:  To  heaven  itself;  and  such  our  guilty  pride, 

We  will  not  let  great  Jove  forget  his  ire, 
Nor  lay  his  vengeful  thunderbolts  aside. 


ODE  IV.     TO  SESTIUS. 


43 


ODE  IV. 

TO  SESTIUS. 

Now  biting  Winter  fled,  sweet  Spring  is  come  in- 
stead, 

And  barks  long  stranded  high  and  dry  put  out 
again  from  shore ; 
Now  the  ox  forsakes  his  byre,  and  the  husbandman 
his  fire, 

And  daisy-dappled  meadows  bloom  where  winter 
frosts  lay  hoar. 

By  Cytherea  led,  while  the  moon  shines  overhead, 
The  Nymphs  and  Graces,  hand-in-hand,  with 
alternating  feet, 
Shake  the  ground,  while  swinking  Vulcan  strikes 
the  sparkles  fierce  and  red 
From  the  forges  of  the  Cyclops,  dun  with  smoke 
and  lurid  heat. 

'Tis  the  time  with  myrtle  green  to  bind  our  glisten- 
ing locks, 

Or  with  flowers,  wherein  the  loosen'd  earth  her- 
self hath  newly  dress'd, 
And  to  sacrifice  to  Faunus  in  some  glade  amidst 
the  rocks 

A  yearling  lamb,  or  else  a  kid,  if  such  delight 
him  best. 


44  ODE  IV.       TO  SESTIUS. 

Death  comes  alike  to  all,  —  to  the  monarch's  lordly 
hall, 

Or  the  hovel  of  the  beggar,  and  his  summons 
none  shall  stay. 
O  Sestius,  happy  Sestius !  use  the  moments  as  they 

pass ; 

Far-reaching  hopes  are  not  for  us,  the  creatures 
of  a  day. 

Full  soon  shall  night  enshroud  thee  in  the  Manes' 
phantom  crowd, 
And  the  bare  and  narrow  mansion  of  Pluto  close 
thee  in  ; 

And  thou  shalt  not  banish  care  by  the  ruddy  wine- 
cup  there, 

Nor  woo  the  gentle  Lycidas,  whom  all  are  mad 
to  win. 


ODE  V.     TO  PYRRHA. 


45 


ODE  V. 

TO  PYRRHA. 

Say,  Pyrrha,  say,  what  slender  boy, 

With  locks  all  dropping  balm,  on  roses  laid, 

Doth  now  with  thee  in  pleasant  grotto  toy  ? 
For  whom  dost  thou  thine  amber  tresses  braid, 

Array'd  with  simple  elegance  ? 

Alas  !  alas  i  How  oft  shall  he  deplore 
The  alter'd  gods,  and  thy  perfidious  glance, 

And,  new  to  danger,  shrink,  when  sea  waves  roai, 

Chafed  by  the  surly  winds,  who  now 

Enjoyeth  thee,  all  golden  as  thou  art ; 
And  hopes,  fond  fool !  through  every  change,  that 
thou 

Wilt  welcome  him  as  fondly  to  thy  heart ! 

Nor  doth  not  know,  how  shift  the  while 

The  fairest  gales  beneath  the  sunniest  skies  ; 

Unhappy  he,  who,  weeting  not  thy  guile, 
Basks  in  the  sunshine  of  thy  flattering  eyes  ! 

My  votive  tablet,  duly  set 

Against  the  temple's  wall,  doth  witness  keep, 
That  I,  whilere,  my  vestments  dank  and  wet 

Hung  at  the  shrine  of  Him  that  rules  the  deep. 


ODE  VI.     TO  AGRIPPA. 


ODE  VI 
TO  AGRIPPA. 

By  Yarius  shall  thy  prowess  be 

In  strains  Maeonic  chaunted, 
The  victories  by  land  and  sea, 
Our  gallant  troops,  led  on  by  thee, 

Have  won  with  swords  undaunted- 
Such  themes,  Agrippa,  never  hath 

My  lyre  essay'd,  nor  bold 
Pelides'  unrelenting  wrath, 
Nor  artfullest  Ulysses'  path 

O'er  oceans  manifold ; 

Nor  woes  of  Pelops'  fated  line ; 

Such  flights  too  soaring  are  ! 
Nor  doth  my  bashful  Muse  incline, 
Great  Caesar's  eulogies  and  thine 

With  its  thin  notes  to  mar. 

Who,  who  shall  sing,  with  accents  just 

Mars'  adamantine  mail, 
Or  Merion,  grimed  with  Trojan  dust, 
Or  him  who,  strong  in  Pallas'  trust, 

Made  even  gods  to  quail  ? 

Heart-whole,  or  pierced  by  Cupid's  stings 

In  careless  mirthfulness, 
Of  banquets  we,  and  maidens  sing, 
With  nails  cut  closely  skirmishing, 

When  lovers  hotly  press. 


ODE  VII.     TO  MUNATIUS  PLANCUS. 


ODE  VII. 

TO  MUNATIUS  PLANCUS. 

Some  will  laud  fair  Mytilene,  — 

Rhodes,  where  many  wonders  be,  — 
Some  great  Ephesus,  or  Corinth 

Watered  by  its  double  sea ; 
Thebes  renown'd  for  Bacchus,  Delphi 

Famous  for  Apollo's  shrine, 
Others  praise  Thessalian  Tempe, 

And  its  thousand  charms  divine  ; 
Some  the  towers  of  spotless  Pallas 

Chaunt,  nor  ask  another  theme, 
Thence  to  pluck  an  olive  garland, 

All  their  pride  and  all  their  dream. 
Many  a  bard,  in  Juno's  honor, 

Makes  the  burden  of  his  lyre 
Rich  Mycenae,  grassy  Argos, 

Famous  for  its  steeds  of  fire. 

Me  nor  patient  Lacedemon, 

Nor  Larissa's  fertile  plain, 
Like  Albunea's  echoing  fountain 

All  my  inmost  heart  hath  ta'en. 
Give  me  Anio's  headlong  torrent, 

And  Tiburnus'  grove  and  hills, 
And  its  orchards  sparkling  dewy 

With  a  thousand  wimpling  rills. 


ODE  VII.     TO  MUNATIUS  PLANCUS. 

As  tlie  sunny  southwind  often 

Sweeps  the  louring  clouds  away, 
Nor  with  showers  unceasing  ever 

Loads  the  long  and  dreary  day, 
Plancus,  so  do  thou  remember 

Still  to  cheer  with  balmy  wine 
All  the  care  and  grief  and  travail 

Of  this  toilworn  life  of  thine  ; 
Whether  in  the  throng'd  camp,  gleaming 

With  a  thousand  spears,  or  laid 
On  the  turf  beneath  the  umbrage 

Of  thy  loved  Tiburtine  glade. 

Teucer,  though  an  outcast  hunted 

From  his  native  Salamis, 
Hunted  by  a  father's  anger, 

Natheless  —  as  the  legend  is  — 
On  his  forehead  wet  with  revel 

First  a  wreath  of  poplar  bound, 
Then  his  comrades  thus  accosted, 

As  they  sadly  stood  around. 
"  Wheresoever  Fortune,  kinder 

Than  my  sire,  our  voyage  bends, 
Thither  shall  we  go  together, 

O  my  comrades,  brothers,  friends  ! 
Teucer  for  your  leader,  —  marshall'd 

Under  Teucer's  guiding  star, 
WTiat  shall  stay,  or  what  shall  daunt  us  ? 

Hence,  then,  craven  fears,  afar  1 
For  I  hold  Apollo's  promise, 

That  in  other  climes  a  new 
Salamis  shall  rise  around  us, 

Fairer,  nobler  to  the  view  ! 
Now,  ye  brave  hearts,  that  have  weather'd 

Many  a  sorer  strait  with  me, 
Chase  your  cares  with  wine,  —  to-morrow 

We  shall  plough  the  mighty  sea  ! " 


ODE  VIII.     TO  LYDIA. 


49 


ODE  VIII. 

TO  LYDIA. 

Why,  Lydia,  why, 
I  pray,  by  all  the  gods  above, 

Art  so  resolved  that  Sybaris  should  die, 
And  all  for  love  ? 

Why  doth  he  shun 
The  Campus  Martius'  sultry  glare  ? 

He  that  once  reck'd  of  neither  dust  nor  sun, 
Why  rides  he  there, 

First  of  the  brave, 
Taming  the  Gallic  steed  no  more  ? 

Why  doth  he  shrink  from  Tiber's  yellow  wave  ? 
Why  thus  abhor 

The  wrestlers'  oil, 
As 't  were  from  viper's  tongue  distilFd  ? 

Why  do  his  arms  no  livid  bruises  soil, 
He,  once  so  skilPd, 

The  disc  or  dart 
Far,  far  beyond  the  mark  to  hurl  ? 

And  tell  me,  tell  me,  in  what  nook  apart, 
Like  baby  girl, 

Lurks  the  poor  boy, 
Veiling  his  manhood,  as  did  Thetis'  son, 

To  'scape  war's  bloody  clang,  while  fated  Troy 
Was  yet  undone  ? 


50 


ODE  VIII.     TO  LYDIA. 


THE  SAME  PARAPHRASED. 


Nay,  Lydia,  't  is  too  bad,  it  is, 

Thus  to  inflame  poor  Sybaris. 

Be  merciful,  you  puss,  or,  sooth, 

You  '11  soon  make  worms-meat  of  the  youth. 

He 's  finished,  floor'd,  and  all  agree, 

Was  never  man  so  changed  as  he  ! 

Before  his  eyes  by  love  were  seal'd, 

He  headed  every  hunting  field, 

In  horsemanship  could  all  eclipse, 

And  was  the  very  best  of  whips. 

With  skulls  he  was  a  match  for  Clasper, 

His  bat  at  cricket  was  a  rasper, 

And  ne'er  was  eye  or  hand  so  quick 

With  gloves,  or  foil,  or  single  stick ; 

A  very  stag  to  run  or  jump,  — 

In  short,  he  was  a  thorough  trump. 

But  now,  what  way  his  time  he  spends, 

Heaven  only  knows  !  He 's  cut  his  friends, 

And,  to  complete  his  ruin  quicker, 

He  neither  smokes  nor  takes  his  liquor. 

He 's  never  seen,  and  now,  they  say 

He 's  fairly  bolted,  stolen  away ! 

Where  have  you  hid  him,  Lydia,  where  ? 

You  have  him  with  you  I  could  swear, 

And,  in  your  cast-off  gown  array'd, 

He  minces  as  your  lady's  maid. 


ODE  IX.     TO  TIIALIARCHUS. 


ODE  IX. 

TO  THALIARCHUS. 

Look  out,  my  Thaliarchus,  round  I 
Soracte's  crest  is  white  with  snow, 

The  drooping  branches  sweep  the  ground, 

And,  fast  in  icy  fetters  bound, 
The  streams  have  ceased  to  flow. 

Pile  up  fresh  logs  upon  the  hearth, 

To  thaw  the  nipping  cold, 
And  forth  from  Sabine  jar,  to  wing 
Our  mirth,  the  ruddy  vine-juice  bring 

Four  mellowing  summers  old. 

Leave  to  the  gods  all  else  ;  when  free 

They  set  the  surly  winds, 
To  grapple  on  the  yeasty  sea 
In  headlong  strife,  the  cypress-tree, 

The  old  ash  respite  finds. 

Let  not  to-morrow's  change  or  chance 

Perplex  thee,  but  as  gain 
Count  each  new  day !    Let  beauty's  glanc© 
Engage  thee,  and  the  merry  dance, 
-  Nor  deem  such  pleasures  vain ! 

Gloom  is  for  age.    Young  hearts  should  glow 
With  fancies  bright  and  free, 


ODE  IX.     TO  THALIARCHUS. 


Should  court  the  crowded  walk,  the  show, 
And  at  dim  eve  love's  murmurs  low 
Beneath  the  trysting  tree  ; 

The  laugh  from  the  sly  corner,  where 

Our  girl  is  hiding  fast, 
The  struggle  for  the  lock  of  hair, 
The  half  well  pleased,  half  angry  air, 

The  yielded  kiss  at  list. 


ODE  X      TO  MERCURY. 


53 


ODE  X. 

TO  MERCURY. 

Mercurius,  Atlas'  grandchild  eloquent, 
Who  didst  to  gentle  ways  man's  primal  race 
By  language  mould,  and  their  uncouth  limbs  lent 
The  gymnast's  grace, 

Herald  of  mighty  Jove,  and  all  the  gods, 
Lord  of  the  curved  lyre,  who  canst  at  will 
Filch  for  thy  sport,  whate'er  may  be  the  odds, 
I  '11  hymn  thee  still ! 

When  with  loud  threats  he  charged  thee  to  forego 
The  kine,  thy  impish  craft  from  him  had  wiled, 
Even  while  he  spoke,  of  quiver  reft  and  bow, 
Apollo  smiled. 

Quitting  his  halls,  by  thee  rich  Priam  led 
Stole  past  the  watchfires  round  Troy's  leaguer'd  wall, 
And  through  the  Grecian  camp  in  safety  sped, 
Unseen  of  all. 

Thou  guid'st  to  bliss  the  spirits  of  the  just, 
Driving  the  phantoms  with  thy  golden  rod, 
In  heaven  and  hell  beloved  and  held  in  trust 
By  every  god ! 


54 


ODE  XI.     TO  LEUCONOE. 


ODE  XI. 

TO  LEUCONOE. 

Ask  not  of  fate  to  show  ye,  — 
Such  lore  is  not  for  man,  — 
What  limits,  Leuconoe,  *) 
Shall  round  life's  little  span. 
Both  thou  and  I 
Must  quickly  die ! 
Content  thee,  then,  nor  madly  hope 
To  wrest  a  false  assurance  from  Chaldean  horoscope. 

Far  nobler,  better  were  it, 

Whate'er  may  be  in  store, 
With  soul  serene  to  bear  it ; 
If  winters  many  more 
Jove  spare  for  thee, 
Or  this  shall  be 
The  last,  that  now  with  sullen  roar 
Scatters  the  Tuscan  surge  in  foam  upon  the  rock- 
bound  shore. 

Be  wise,  your  spirit  firing 

With  cups  of  temper'd  wine, 
And  hopes  afar  aspiring 
Tn  compass  brief  confine. 
Use  all  life's  powers, 
The  envious  hours 
Fly  as  we  talk  ;  then  live  to-day, 
Nor  fondly  to  to-morrow  trust  more  than  you  must 
and  may. 

*  A  license,  allowable,  it  is  hoped,  has  been  taken  in  lengthen- 
ing the  penultimate  syllable  of  this  lady's  beautiful  name. 


ODE  XII.     TO  AUGUSTUS. 


55 


ODE  XII. 

TO  AUGUSTUS. 

What  man.  what  hero.  Clio,  wilt  thou  sing, 

With  lyre  or  fluting  shrill '? 
What  god.  whose  name  shall  sportive  echo  ring 

On  Helicon's  umbrageous  hill. 
Or  Pindus'  steepy  crest,  or  Hasnius  ever  chill  ? 

Whose  groves  reePd  after  Orpheus,  and  his  song, 

Who  by  its  spell  could  stay 
The  rushing  sweep  of  streams  and  tempests  strong, 

And  by  his  tuneful  harpings  sway 
The  listening  oaks  to  move  where'er  he  led  the 
way. 

What  shall  I  sing  before  his  praise,  who  reigns 

The  world's  great  sire,  and  guides 
Of  men  and  gods  the  pleasures  and  the  pains, 

Who  rules  the  land  and  ocean's  tides, 
And  change  of  seasons  meet  for  the  vast  earth  pro- 
vides '? 

From  whom  springs  none  that  mightier  is  than  he, 

Nor  other  can  we  trace, 
Of  equal  might,  or  second  in  degree  ; 

Yet  Pallas  fills  the  honour'd  place 
Next  to  her  sire,  upraised  o'er  all  the  Olympian 
race. 


56 


ODE  XII.     TO  AUGUSTUS. 


Nor,  Bacchus,  bold  in  battle,  shall  thy  fame 

My  numbers  fail  to  show, 
And,  virgin  huntress  of  the  woods,  thy  name 

In  answering  strains  shall  flow, 
And  thine,  Apollo,  thine,  god  of  the  unerring 
bow ! 

Alcides,  too,  and  Leda's  sons  I  '11  sound 

In  echoing  song  afar 
For  wrestling  this,  that  for  the  race  renown'd, 

Soon  as  whose  clear  effulgent  star 
Upon  the  shipman  gleams,  amid  the  tempest's 
war, 

Down  from  the  rocks  subsides  the  weltering  spray, 

The  winds  in  zephyrs  creep, 
The  clouds  disperse,  that  veil'd  the  gladsome  day, 

And  on  the  wild  and  wasteful  deep 
The  threatening  waves  —  such  power  is  theirs  —  are 
lulPd  to  sleep. 

What  next  shall  fill  the  burden  of  my  strain, 

I  wist  not  to  decide  ; 
Or  Romulus,  or  Numa's  tranquil  reign, 

Or  Tarquin  towering  in  his  pride, 
Or  him  of  Utica,  the  brave,  that  nobly  died. 

Next  Regulus,  and  the  Scauri,  Paulus  too, 

That  flung  his  soul  away, 
His  mighty  soul,  when  Punic  foes  o'erthrew 

Our  strength  on  Cannae's  fatal  day, 
With  grateful  pride  I'll  chaunt  in  my  undying 
lay ; 

Fabricius  too,  and  Curius  of  the  locks 

Unkempt,  —  Camillus,  —  all 
Nurtured  to  warfare  by  the  daily  shocks 

Of  stern  privation,  in  the  small 
Paternal  farm  and  cot  that  made  of  wealth  their  all. 


GDE  XII.     TO  AUGUSTUS. 


57 


With  growth  occult,  as  shoots  the  vigorous  tree, 

Marcellus'  fame  doth  grow  ; 
The  star  of  Julius  shines  resplendently, 

Eclipsing  all  the  starry  row, 
As  'mid  the  lesser  fires  bright  Luna's  lamp  doth  glow. 

Thou  sire  and  guardian  of  all  human  kind, 

Saturnian  Jove,  to  thee 
The  care  of  mighty  Caesar  was  assign'd 

By  the  o'erruling  fates,  and  he 
Next  to  thyself  in  power  our  sovereign  lord  shall  be. 

Whether  he  quell  the  Parthian  threatening  spoil 

To  Latium,  and  lead 
The  foe,  that  would  insult  our  natal  soil, 

In  spotless  triumph,  —  or  the  Mede 
Subdue,  and  other  foes,  the  sweltering  East  doth 
breed ; 

Next  under  thee,  his  righteous  hand  shall  make 

The  world  his  rule  obey  ; 
Olympus  thou  with  thy  dread  car  shalt  shake, 

Thou  shalt  thy  vengeful  bolts  array 
Against  the  groves,  wherein  foul  orgies  shrink  from 
day. 


3* 


ODE  XIII.     TO  LYDIA. 


ODE  XIII. 

TO  LYDIA. 

Lydia,  when  so  oft  the  charms 
Of  Telephus  you  bid  me  note, 

Taunt  me  with  his  snowy  arms, 
Rosy  cheek,  and  shapely  throat, 

Within  my  breast  I  feel  the  fires 

Of  wild  and  desperate  desires. 

Then  reels  my  brain,  then  on  my  cheek 
The  shifting  colour  comes  and  goes, 

And  tears,  that  flow  unbidden,  speak 
The  torture  of  my  inward  throes, 

The  fierce  unrest,  the  deathless  flame, 

That  slowly  macerates  my  frame. 

O  agony  !  to  trace  where  he 

Has  smutch'd  thy  shoulders  ivory-white 
Amid  his  tipsy  revelry  ; 

Or  where,  in  trance  of  fierce  delight, 
Upon  thy  lips  the  frenzied  boy 
Has  left  the  records  of  his  joy. 

Hope  not  such  love  can  last  for  aye, 
(But  thou  art  deaf  to  words  of  mine  !) 

Such  selfish  love,  as  ruthlessly 

Could  wound  those  kisses  all  divine, 

Which  Venus  steeps  in  sweets  intense 

Of  her  own  nectar's  quintessence. 


Wx>E  XIII.     TO  LYDIA. 


0,  trebly -blest,  and  blest  forever, 
Are  they  whom  true  affection  binds, 

In  whom  no  doubts  nor  j  anglings  sever 
The  union  of  their  constant  minds ; 

But  life  in  blended  current  flows, 

Serene  and  sunny  to  the  close ! 


ODE  XIV.     TO  THE  REPUBLIC. 


ODE  XIV. 

TO  THE  EEPUBLIC. 

O  bark,  fresh  waves  shall  hurry  thee, 
Yet  once  again,  far  out  to  sea ; 
Beware,  beware  ;  and  boldly  seize 
The  port,  where  thou  may'st  ride  at  east,  ! 
Dost  thou  not  see,  thy  side  is  shorn 
Of  all  its  oars,  thy  mainmast  torn, 
And  hear  thy  lanyards  moan  and  shriek, 
And  all  thy  straining  timbers  creak, 
Too  frail  to  meet  the  surge  around, 
Though  plank  to  plank  with  cables  bound. 
Thy  sails  are  rent ;  nor  gods  hast  thou, 
When  danger  threats,  to  hear  thy  vow ; 
Although  thou  art  a  Pontic  pine, 
A  woodland  child  of  noble  line, 
Vain,  vain  amid  the  tempest's  rage 
Such  vaunted  name  and  lineage  ! 
No  trust  hath  fearful  marinere 
In  gilded  prow ;  so  thou  beware ! 
Unless  it  be  thy  doom  to  form 
The  sport  and  pastime  of  the  storm. 

O  thou,  that  erewhile  wert  to  me 
A  heavy-sad  anxiety, 
And  now  my  fond  ambition  art, 
The  care  that  chiefly  fills  my  heart, 
O,  be  advised,  and  shun  the  seas, 
That  wash  the  shining  Cyclades ! 


ODE  XV.     THE  PROPHECY  OF  NEREUS.  61 


ODE  XV. 

THE  PROPHECY  OF  NEREUS. 

As  the  treacherous  shepherd  bore  over  the  deep 
His  hostess,  fair  Helena,  Nereus  arose, 

Hush'd  the  war  of  the  winds  for  a  season  to  sleep, 
And  thus  sang  the  doom  of  retributive  woes. 

"  Thou  bearest  her  home  with  an  omen  of  dread, 
Whom  Greece  shall  reclaim,  with  her  myriads 
vow'd 

To  tear,  by  the  sword,  thy  false  mate  from  thy  bed, 
And  crush  Priam's  empire,  the  ancient,  the  proud. 

"  Horse  and  man,  how  they  labour !    What  deaths 
shall  o'erwhelm, 

And  all  for  thy  crime,  the  Dardanians  in  night ! 
See  Pallas  preparing  her  aegis  and  helm, 

Her  chariot,  and  all  the  fierce  frenzy  of  fight ! 

"  Go,  trim  as  thou  wilt,  boy,  thy  loose  flowing  curls, 
Go,  vaunt  thee,  that  Venus  shall  shield  thee  from 
wrong, 

And,  laid  with  thy  lute  'midst  a  bevy  of  girls, 
Troll  thy  measures  effeminate  all  the  day  long. 

"  Ay,  hide  an*  thou  may'st  in  the  couch  of  thy  lust 
From  the  death-dealing  spear,  and  the  arrows  of 
Crete, 


62      ODE  XV.     THE  PROPHECY  OF  NEREUS. 

From  the  roar  of  the  battle,  its  carnage,  its  dust, 
And  Ajax  pursuing,  remorseless  and  fleet ! 

"  Yet  in  gore  thy  adulterous  locks  shall  be  roll'd, 
Though  late  be  thy  doom.    Lo,  the  scourge  of  thy 
race, 

Laertiades !    Dost  thou  not  see  him  ?    Behold ! 
And  Pylian  Nestor  !  —  And  see,  on  thy  trace 

"  Rushes  Teucer  of  Salamis,  dauntless  and  fell, 
And  Sthenelus,  skilful  in  combat,  nor  less 

In  ruling  the  war-steed  expert  to  excel, 

And  close  on  thy  track,  too,  shall  Merion  press. 

"  Lo,  Tydides,  surpassing  his  father  in  might, 
Athirst  for  thy  hfeblood,  with  furious  cheer 

Is  hunting  thee  out  through  the  thick  of  the  fight, 
While  before  him  thou  fly'st,  like  a  timorous  deer, 

"  Who,  espying  a  wolf  on  the  brow  of  the  hill 
Flies  far  from  the  pasture,  with  heart-heaving 
pants ; 

Is  it  thus  that  thy  leman  shall  see  thee  fulfil 
The  promise  of  all  thy  presumptuous  vaunts  ? 

"  The  wrath  of  Achilles  shall  stay  for  a  while 
The  downfall  of  Ilion,  and  Phrygia's  dames,  — 

Yet  a  few  winters  more,  and  her  funeral  pile 
In  ashes  shall  fall  'midst  Achaian  flames ! 99 


ODE  XVI.     TO  TYNDARIS. 


63 


ODE  XVI. 

TO  TYNDARIS. 

O  daughter,  in  beauty  more  exquisite  still 
Than  a  mother,  whose  beauty  we  all  must  ad- 
mire, 

My  scurrilous  verses  destroy,  how  you  will, 

Deep  drown  them  in  ocean,  or  quench  them  in 
fire ! 

Dindymene  herself,  nor  the  Pythian,  when 

He  convulses  his  priests  with  the  fury  prophetic, 

Nor  Bacchus,  nor  Corybants,  clashing  again 

And  again  their  wild  cymbals,  such  fervour  phre- 
netic 

Can  move  as  fell  rage ;  which  no  terrors  can  tame, 
Neither  Norican  glaive,  nor  the  ocean  bestrew'd 

With  wreck  and  disaster,  nor  merciless  flame, 
Nor  the  thunders  of  Jove  in  his  vengefullest  mood. 

JTis  the  curse  of  our  birth  ;  for  Prometheus,  they 
say, 

CompelPd  from  all  beasts  some  particular  part 
To  select  for  his  work,  to  our  primitive  clay 
Imparted  the  lion's  impetuous  heart. 

e  drew  on  Thyestes  the  vengeance  of  heaven, 
hrough  rage  have  been  levell'd  the  loftiest  halls 
And  cities  high-famous,  and  ploughshares  been 
driven 

By  insolent  enemies  over  their  walls. 


64 


ODE  XVI.     TO  TYNDARIS. 


O,  stifle  the  fiend !    In  the  pleasant  spring  time 
Of  my  youth  he  enkindled  my  breast  with  his 
flame, 

And  headlong  I  dash'd  into  petulant  rhyme, 

Which  now  in  my  manhood  I  think  on  with 
shame. 

*But  a  kindlier  mood  hath  my  passion  supplanted, 
And  music  more  gentle  shall  flow  from  my  lute, 
Would'st  thou  make  me  thy  friend, — my  vile  libels 
recanted,  — 
And  smile  with  reciprocal  love  on  my  suit ! 


ODE  XVII.     TO  T  5TND  ARIS-. 


65 


ODE  XVII. 


TO  TYNDARIS. 

My  own  sweet  Lucretilfis  ofttime  can  lure 

From  his  native  Lycseus  kind  Faunus  the  fleet, 

To  watch  o'er  my  flocks,  and  to  keep  them  secure 
From  summer's  fierce  winds,  and  its  rains,  and  its 
heat. 

Then  the  mates  of  a  lord  of  too  pungent  a  fragrance 
Securely  through  brake  and  o'er  precipice  climb, 

And  crop,  as  they  wander  in  happiest  vagrance, 
The  arbutus  green,  and  the  sweet-scented  thyme. 

Nor  murderous  wolf,  nor  green  snake  may  assail 
My  innocent  kidlings,  dear  Tyndaris,  when 

His  pipings  resound  through  Ustica's  low  vale, 
Till  each  moss'd  rock  in  music  makes  answer 
again. 

The  muse  is  still  dear  to  the  gods,  and  they 
shield 

Me  their  dutiful  bard ;  with  a  bounty  divine 
They  have  bless'd  me  with  all  that  the  country  can 
yield, 

Then  come,  and  whatever  I  have  shall  be  thine  ! 

Here  screened  from  the  dog-star,  in  valley  retired, 
Shalt  thou  sing  that  old  song  thou  canst  warble 
so  well, 

Which  tells  how  one  passion  Penelope  fired, 
A»d  charm'd  fickle  Circe  herself  by  its  spell. 

E 


66 


ODE  XVII.     TO  TYNDARIS. 


Here  cups  shalt  thou  sip,  'neath  the  broad-spreading 
shade, 

Of  the  innocent  vintage  of  Lesbos  at  ease, 
No  fumes  of  hot  ire  shall  our  banquet  invade, 
Or  mar  that  sweet  festival  under  the  trees. 

And  fear  not,  lest  Cyrus,  that  jealous  young  bear, 

On  thy  poor  little  self  his  rude  fingers  should  set, 
Should  pluck  from  thy  bright  locks  the  chaplet,  and 
tear 

Thy  dress ,  that  ne'er  harm'd  him  nor  any  one  jet. 


OPK  XVIII.    TO  VARUS. 


ODE  XVIII. 
TO  VARUS. 

Let  the  vine,  dearest  Varus,  the  vine  be  the  first 
Of  all  trees  to  be  planted,  of  all  to  be  nursed, 
On  thy  well-shelter'd  acres,  round  Catilus'  walls, 
Where  the  sun  on  the  green  slopes  of  Tivoli  falls  ! 
For  to  him  who  ne'er  moistens  his  lip  with  the  grape 
Life's  every  demand  wears  a  terrible  shape, 
And  wine,  and  wine  only  has  magic  to  scare 
Despondency's  gloom  or  the  torments  of  care. 
Who 's  he  that,  with  wine's  joyous  fumes  in  his  brain, 
Of  the  travails  of  war,  or  of  want  will  complain, 
Nor  rather,  sire  Bacchus,  thy  eulogies  chant, 
Or  thine,  Venus,  thine,  ever  beautiful,  vaunt  ? 

Yet,  that  none  may  abuse  the  good  gift,  and 
o'erpass 

The  innocent  mi~th  of  a  temperate  glass, 
A  warning  is  set  in  the  wine-kindled  strife, 
Where  the  Centaurs  and  Lapithse  grappled  for  life  ; 
In  the  madmen  of  Thrace,  too,  a  warning  is  set, 
Who,  lost  in  their  Bacchanal  frenzy,  forget 
The  bounds  that  dissever  the  right  from  the  wrong, 
And  sweep  on  the  tide  of  their  passions  along. 

Bright  god  of^the  vine,  I  never  will  share 
In  orgies  so  vile  and  unholy,  nor  tear 


fS  ODE  XVIII.     TO  VARUS. 

The  clusters  of  various  foliage  away, 

That  keep  thy  blest  mysteries  veil'd  from  the  day. 

Then  clash  not  the  cymbals,  and  wind  not  the  horn, 

Dread  sounds,  of  whose  maddening  accents  are  born 

Blind  Self-love,  and  Vanity  lifting  on  high 

Its  feather-brain'd  head,  as 't  would  strike  at  the  sky, 

And  Frankness,  transparent  as  crystal,  that  shows 

In  its  babbling  incontinence  all  that  it  knows. 


ODE  XIX.     TO  GLYCERA. 


69 


ODE  XIX. 


TO  GLYCERA. 

The  ruthless  mother  of  wild  desires, 

And  Theban  Semele's  fervent  son, 
And  wanton  idlesse  have  kindled  fires 

Within  me,  I  dream'd  I  had  long  outrun. 
I  am  madden'd  by  Glycera's  beauty's  blaze,  — 

The  marble  of  Paros  is  pale  beside  it  — 
By  her  pretty,  provoking,  and  petulant  ways, 

And  face  too  dazzling  for  eye  to  'bide  it. 

Into  me  rushing,  hath  Venus  quite 

Forsaken  her  Cyprus,  nor  lets  me  chant 
The  Scyths  and  the  Parthians,  dauntless  in  flight, 

Nor  aught  that  to  Love  is  irrelevant. 
Hither,  boys,  turf  of  the  freshest  bring, 

Yervain,  and  incense,  and  wine  unstinted ! 
The  goddess  less  fiercely  my  heart  shall  sting, 

When  the  victim's  gore  hath  her  altar  tinted. 


ODE  XX.     TO  MAECENAS. 


ODE  XX. 


TO  MAECENAS. 

Our  common  Sabine  wine  shall  be 
The  only  drink  I  '11  give  to  thee, 

In  modest  goblets  too  ; 
'T  was  stored  in  crock  of  Grecian  delf, 
Dear  knight  Maecenas,  by  myself, 

That  very  day,  when  through 
The  theatre  thy  plaudits  rang, 
And  sportive  echo  caught  the  clang, 

And  answer'd  from  the  banks 
Of  thine  own  dear  paternal  stream, 
Whilst  Vatican  renew'd  the  theme 

Of  homage  and  of  thanks  ! 
Old  Csecuban,  the  very  best, 
And  juice  in  vats  Calenian  press'd 

You  drink  at  home,  I  know  : 
My  cups  no  choice  Falernian  fills, 
Nor  unto  them  do  Formia's  hills 

Impart  a  temper'd  glow. 


ODE  XXI.     DIANA  AND  APOLLO.  71 


ODE  XXI. 

IN  HONOUR.  OF  DIANA  AND  APOLLO. 

Ye  tender  virgins  fair, 
To  great  Diana  sing, 
Ye  boys,  to  Cynthius  of  the  unshorn  hair, 
Your  dulcet  anthems  bring, 
And  let  Latona  mingle  with  your  theme, 
That  dearer  is  than  all  to  Jove,  Heaven's  lord  su* 
preme  ! 

Her  praises  sing,  ye  maids, 

Who  doth  in  streams  delight, 
In  whispering  groves,  and  intertangled  glades, 
On  Algidus'  cool  height, 
Or  Erymanthus  with  its  dusky  pines, 
Or  where  with  verdure  bright  the  leafy  Cragus  shines. 

Ye  boys,  in  numbers  meet, 

Fair  Tempe's  praises  chant, 
Delos,  that  was  Apollo's  natal  seat, 
And  loved  peculiar  haunt ; 
Sing,  too,  his  quiver  with  its  golden  gleams, 
And  lyre,  his  brother's  gift,  that  from  his  shouldei 
beams  ! 

Moved  by  your  prayers  he  will 

Banish  distressful  war, 
Famine,  and  pestilence,  and  their  trains  of  ill 
From  our  loved  Rome  afar, 
And  from  great  Caesar,  scattering  their  blight, 
The  Persian's  pride  to  quell,  or  Britain's  chainless 
minrh* 


72  ODE  XXII.     TO  ABISTIUS  FUSCUS. 


ODE  XXII. 

TO  ARISTIUS  FUSCUS. 

Fuse  us,  the  man  of  life  upright  and  pure 
Needeth  nor  javelin  nor  bow  of  Moor, 
Nor  arrows  tipp'd  with  venom  deadly-sure, 
Loading  his  quiver ; 

Whether  o'er  Afric's  burning  sands  he  rides, 
Or  frosty  Caucasus'  bleak  mountain-sides, 
Or  wanders  lonely,  where  Hydaspes  glides, 
That  storied  river. 

For  as  I  stray'd  along  the  Sabine  wood, 
Singing  my  Lalage  in  careless  mood, 
Lo,  all  at  once  a  wolf  before  me  stood, 
Then  turned  and  fled  : 

Creature  so  huge  did  warlike  Daunia  ne'er 
Engender  in  her  forests'  wildest  lair, 
Not  Juba's  land,  parch'd  nurse  of  lions,  e'er 
Such  monster  bred. 

Place  me,  where  no  life-laden  summer  breeze 
Freshens  the  meads,  or  murmurs  'mongst  the  trees, 
Where  clouds,  and  blighting  tempests  ever  freeze 
From  year  to  year ; 

Place  me,  where  neighbouring  sunbeams  fiercely 
broil, 

A  weary  waste  of  scorch'd  and  homeless  soil, 
To  me  my  Lalage's  sweet  voice  and  smile 
Would  still  be  dear ! 


ODE  XXIII.     TO  CHLOE. 


ODE  XXIIL 
TO  CHLOE. 

Nay,  hear  me,  clearest  Chloe,  pray ! 

You  shun  me  like  a  timid  fawn, 
That  seeks  its  mother  all  the  day 

By  forest  brake  and  upland  lawn, 
Of  every  passing  breeze  afraid, 
And  leaf  that  twitters  in  the  glade. 

Let  but  the  wind  with  sudden  rush 
The  whispers  of  the  wood  awake, 

Or  lizard  green  disturb  the  hush, 

Quick-darting  through  the  grassy  brake, 

The  foolish  frightened  thing  will  start, 

With  trembling  knees  and  beating  heart. 

But  I  am  neither  lion  fell, 

No  tiger  grim  to  work  you  woe ; 

I  love  you,  sweet  one,  much  too  well, 
Then  cling  not  to  your  mother  so, 

But  to  a  lover's  tender  arms 

Confide  your  ripe  and  rosy  charms. 


4 


74 


ODE  XXIV.    TO  VIRGIL. 


ODE  XXIV. 

TO  VIRGIL. 

Why  should  we  stem  the  tears  that  needs  must  flow, 
Why  blush,  that  they  should  freely  flow  and  long  ? 

lb  think  of  that  dear  head  in  death  laid  low  ? 
Do  thou  inspire  my  melancholy  song, 

Melpomene,  in  whom  the  Muses'  sire 

Join'd  with  a  liquid  voice  the  mastery  of  the  lyre  ! 

And  hath  the  sleep,  that  knows  no  waking  morn, 
Closed  o'er  Quinctilius,  our  Quinctilius  dear  ? 

Where  shall  be  found  the  man  of  woman  born 
That  in  desert  might  be  esteem'd  his  peer,  — 

So  simply  meek,  and  yet  so  sternly  just, 

Of  faith  so  pure,  and  all  so  absolute  of  trust  ? 

He  sank  into  his  rest,  bewept  of  many, 
And  but  the  good  and  noble  wept  for  him, 

But  dearer  cause  thou,  Virgil,  hadst  than  any, 
With  friendship's  tears  thy  friendless  eyes  to  dim 

Alas,  alas  !  Not  to  such  woful  end 

Didst  thou  unto  the  gods  thy  pray'rs  unceasing  send ! 

What  though  thou  modulate  the  tuneful  shell 
With  defter  skill  than  Orpheus  of  old  Thrace, 

When  deftliest  he  played,  and  with  its  spell 
Moved  all  the  listening  forest  from  its  place, 

Yet  never,  never  can  thy  art  avail 

To  bring  life's  glowing  tide  back  to  the  phantom 
pale, 


ODE  XXIV.     TO  VIRGIL. 


IS 


Whom  with  his  black  inexorable  wand 

Hermes,  austere  and  pitiless  as  fate, 
Hath  forced  to  join  the  dark  and  spectral  band 

In  their  sad  journey  to  the  Stygian  gate. 
'T  is  hard,  great  heav'ns,  how  hard !  But  to  endure 
Alleviates  the  pang  we  may  nor  crush  nor  cure  1 


ODE  XXV.     TO  LYDIA. 


ODE  XXV. 

TO  LYDIA. 

Swains  in  numbers 
Break  your  slumbers, 
Saucy  Lydia,  now  but  seldom, 

Ay,  though  at  your  casement  nightly, 
Tapping  loudly,  tapping  lightly, 
By  the  dozen  once  ye  held  them. 

Ever  turning, 
Night  and  morning, 
Swung  your  door  upon  its  hinges ; 

Now,  from  dawn  till  evening's  closing, 
Lone  and  desolate  reposing, 
Not  a  soul  its  rest  infringes. 

Serenaders, 
Sweet  invaders, 
Scanter  grow,  and  daily  scanter, 

Singing,  '*  Lydia,  art  thou  sleeping  ? 
Lonely  watch  thy  love  is  keeping ! 
Wake,  O  wake,  thou  dear  enchanter  ! 99 

Lorn  and  faded, 
You,  as  they  did, 
Woo,  and  in  your  turn  are  slighted ; 
Worn  and  torn  by  passion's  fret, 
You,  the  pitiless  coquette, 
Waste  by  fire-;  yourself  have  lighted. 


ODE  XXV.     TO  LYDIA. 


Late  relenting, 
Left  lamenting,  — 
"  Withered  leaves  strew  wintry  brooks  ! 
Ivy  garlands  greenly  darkling, 
Myrtles  brown  with  dew-drops  sparkling 
Best  beseem  youth's  glowing  looks !  " 


ODE  XXVI.     TO  HIS  MUSE. 


ODE  XXVI. 
TO  HIS  MUSE. 

Beloved  by  and  loving  the  Muses 

I  fling  all  my  sorrow  and  care 
To  the  wind,  that  wherever  it  chooses 

The  troublesome  freight  it  may  bear. 
I  care  not  —  not  I  —  not  a  stiver, 

Who  in  Scythia  frozen  and  drear 
'Neath  the  scourge  of  a  tyrant  may  shiver, 

Or  who  keeps  Tiridates  in  fear. 

O  thou  in  pure  springs  who  delightest, 

Twine  flowers  of  the  sunniest  glow, 
Twine,  gentle  Pimplea,  the  brightest 

Of  wreaths  for  my  Lamia's  brow. 
Without  thee  unskill'd  are  my  numbers ; 

Then  thou  and  thy  sisterly  choir 
Wake  for  him  the  rare  music  that  slumbers 

Unknown  in  the  Lesbian  lyre ! 


ODE  XXVII.     THE  CAROUSAL. 


79 


ODE  XXVII. 

THE  CAROUSAL. 

Hold  !  hold !  'T  is  for  Thracian  madmen  to  fight 
With  wine-cups,  that  only  were  made  for  delight. 
'T  is  barbarous  —  brutal !  I  beg  of  you  all, 
Disgrace  not  our  banquet  with  bloodshed  and  brawl ! 

The  Median  scimetar,  why  should  it  shine, 
Where  the  merry  lamps  sparkle  and  glance  in  the 
wine  ? 

'T  is  out  of  all  rule  !  Friends,  your  places  resume, 
And  let  us  have  order  once  more  in  the  room ! 

If  I  am  to  join  you  in  pledging  a  beaker 
Of  this  stout  Falernian,  choicest  of  liquor, 
Megilla's  fair  brother  must  say,  from  what  eyes 
Flew  the  shaft,  sweetly  fatal,  that  causes  his  sighs. 

How  —  dumb !    Then  I  drink  not  a  drop.  Never 
blush, 

Whoever  the  fair  one  may  be,  man !  Tush,  tush  ! 
She  '11  do  your  taste  credit,  I 'm  certain  —  for  yours 
Was  always  select  in  its  little  amours. 

Don't  be  frightened  !  We'  re  all  upon  honour,  you 
know, 

So  out  with  your  tale  !  Gracious  powers  !  Is  it  so  ? 
Poor  fellow  !  your  lot  has  gone  sadly  amiss, 
When  you  fell  into  such  a  Charybdis  as  this ! 


80  ODE  XXVII.     THE  CAROUSAL. 


What  witch,  what  magician,  with  drinks  and  with 
charms, 

What  god  can  effect  your  release  from  her  harms  ? 
So  fettered,  scarce  Pegasus'  self,  were  he  near  you, 
From  the  fangs  of  this  triple  Chhnsera  might  clear 
you ! 


ODE  XXYTII.  ARCHYTAS. 


si 


ODE  XXVIII. 

ARCHYTAS. 

SAILOR. 

Thee,  O  Archytas,  who  hast  scann'd 

The  wonders  of  the  earth  by  sea  and  land, 
The  lack  of  some  few  grains 
Of  scatter'd  dust  detains 
A  shivering  phantom  here  upon  Matinum's  strand. 
And  it  avails  thee  nothing,  that  thy  soul, 
Death's  sure-devoted  prey, 
Soar'd  to  the  regions  of  eternal  day, 
Where  wheeling  spheres  in  silvery  brightness  roll. 

ARCHYTAS. 

What  then  !  E'en  Pelops'  sire,  the  guest 
Of  gods,  to  Orcus  sank,  by  death  oppress'd, 
And  old  Tithonus,  too, 
Though  heavenly  air  he  drew, 
And  Minos  stern,  who  shared  the  secrets  of  Jove'a 
breast. 

There,  too,  Panthoides,  once  more  immured, 
Roams,  though  his  spirit's  pride 
All  save  this  fading  flesh  to  death  denied, 

By  his  old  Trojan  shield  deceitfully  assured. 

And  he,  even  thou  wilt  grant  me,  was 

Not  meanly  versed  in  truth  and  nature's  laws. 
But  for  us  all  doth  stay 
One  night,  and  death's  dark  way 

4  *  F 


ODE  XXVIH.  ARCHYTAS. 


Must  needs  be  trodden  once,  howe'er  we  pause. 
The  Furies  some  to  Mars'  grim  sport  consign, 
The  hungry  waves  devour 

The  shipman.  young  and  old  drop  hour  by  hour, 
No  single  head  is  spared  by  ruthless  Proserpine. 

Me.  too,  the  headlong  gust, 

That  dogs  Orion,  'neath  the  billows  thrust. 
But.  prithee,  seaman,  shed 
On  my  unburied  head 
And  limbs  with  £entle  hand  some  grains  of  drifting 
dust ! 

So  may  the  storm  that  threats  the  western  deep 

Turn  all  its  wrath  away. 

To  smite  the  forests  of  Yenusia, 
And  thou  thy  course  secure  o'er  the  mild  ocean  keep  ! 

So  may  from  every  hand 

Wealth  rain  on  thee  by  righteous  Jove's  command ! 
And  Neptune,  who  doth  bear 
Tarentum  in  his  care, 
Bring  thy  rich-laden  argosy  to  land  ! 
Deny  me  this,  the  common  tribute  due, 
And  races  to  be  born 
Of  thy  son's  sons  in  after  years  forlorn. 
Though  guiltless  of  thv  crime,  thv  heartless  scorn 
"  shall  rue  ! 

Nor  shall  thyself  go  free, 

For  Fate's  vicissitudes  shall  follow  thee, 
Its  laws,  that  slight  for  slight, 
And  good  for  good  requite  ! 
Not  unavenged  my  bootless  pray'r  shall  be ; 
Nor  victim  ever  expiate  thy  guilt. 
O,  then,  though  speed  thou  must  — 
It  asks  brief  tarrying  —  thrice  with  kindly  dust 
Bestrew  my  corpse,  and  then  press  onward  as  thou 
wilt! 


ODE  XXIX.     TO  ICCIUS. 


83 


ODE  XXIX. 
TO  ICCIUS. 

So,  Iccius,  thou  hast  hankerings 

For  swart  Arabia's  golden  treasures, 

And  for  her  still  unconquer'd  kings 

Art  marshalling  war's  deadly  measures, 

And  forging  fetters  meant  to  tame 

The  insulting  Mede  that  is  our  terror  and  our  shame  ? 

Say,  what  barbarian  virgin  fair 

Shall  wait  on  thee,  that  slew  her  lover, 

What  princely  boy,  with  perfumed  hair, 
Thy  cup-bearer,  shall  round  thee  hover, 

School'd  by  his  sire,  with  fatal  craft 

To  wing,  all  vainly  now,  the  unerring  Seric  shaft  ? 

Up  mountains  steep  may  glide  the  brooks, 

And  Tiber  to  its  sources  roam, 
When  thou  canst  change  thy  noble  books 

CulPd  far  and  near,  and  learned  home, 
For  armour  dipp'd  in  Ebro's  wave, 
Thou  who  to  all  our  hopes  far  nobler  promise  gave ! 


8i 


ODE  XXX.     TO  VENUS. 


ODE  XXX. 
TO  VENUS. 

O  Venus,  queen  of  Gnidos  Paphos  fair, 
Leave  thy  beloved  Cyprus  for  a  while, 

And  shrine  thee  in  that  bower  of  beauty,  where 
With  incense  large  woos  Glycera  thy  smile ! 

O  come,  and  with  thee  bring  thy  glowing  boy, 
The  Graces  all,  with  kirtles  floating  free, 

Youth,  that  without  thee  knows  but  little  joy, 
The  jocund  Nymphs,  and  blithesome  Mercury  ! 


ODE  XXXI.     THE  POET'S  PRAYER. 


ODE  XXXI. 

THE  POET'S  PRAYER. 

What  asks  the  poet,  who  adores 

Apollo's  virgin  shrine, 
What  asks  he,  as  he  freely  pours 

The  consecrating  wine  ? 

Not  the  rich  grain,  that  waves  along 

Sardinia's  fertile  land, 
Nor  the  unnumber'd  herds,  that  throng 

Calabria's  sultry  strand ; 

Not  gold,  nor  ivory's  snowy  gleam, 

The  spoil  of  far  Cathay, 
Nor  fields,  which  Liris,  quiet  stream, 

Gnaws  silently  away. 

Let  fortune's  favoured  sons  the  vine 

Of  fair  Campania  hold  ; 
The  merchant  quaff  the  rarest  wine 

From  cups  of  gleaming  gold  ; 

For  to  the  gods  the  man  is  dear 
Who  scathelessly  can  brave, 

Three  times  or  more  in  every  year, 
The  wild  Atlantic  wave. 


ODE  XXXI.     THE  POET'S  PRAYER. 


Let  olives,  endive,  mallows  light 
Be  all  my  fare  ;  and  health 

Give  thou,  Latoe,  so  I  might 
Enjoy  my  present  wealth  ! 

Give  me  but  these,  I  ask  no  more, 
These,  and  a  mind  entire  — 

And  old  age,  not  unhonour'd,  nor 
Unsolaced  by  the  lyre  ! 


ODE  XXXII.     TO  HIS  LYRE. 


87 


ODE  XXXII. 

TO  HIS  LYRE. 

If  e'er  with  thee,  my  lyre,  beneath  the  shade 
I  've  sported,  carolling  some  idle  lay, 

Destined  mayhap  not  all  at  once  to  fade, 
Aid  me  to  sing  a  master-song  to-day, 

In  strains,  the  Lesbian's  lyre  was  foremost  to  essay ; 

Who,  though  in  battle  brave  among  the  brave, 
Yet,  even  amidst  the  camp's  tumultuous  roar, 

Or  when  his  bark,  long  toss'd  upon  the  wave, 
Lay  anchor 'd  safe  upon  the  oozy  shore, 

Did  hymns  to  Bacchus  and  the  golden  Muses  pour. 

And  Venus,  and  that  source  of  many  sighs, 
The  Boy,  who  from  her  side  is  parted  ne'er, 

And  Lycus  famed  for  his  black  lustrous  eyes, 
And  for  the  glory  of  his  deep  dark  hair, 

Rang  in  his  full-toned  verse  along  the  charmed  air. 

O,  'midst  Apollo's  glories  chief  of  all, 

Thou  shell,  that  ever  art  a  welcome  guest, 

In  sovereign  Jove's  imperial  banquet-hall, 

Thou,  labour's  balm,  and  bringer  of  sweet  rest, 

Aid  him  that  doth  on  thee  with  due  devotion  call ! 


88       ODE  XXXHI.      TO  ALBIUS  TIBULLU8. 


ODE  XXXIII. 

TO  ALBIUS  TIBULLUS. 

Nay,  Albius,  a  truce  to  this  sighing  and  grieving ! 

Is  Glycera  worth  all  this  tempest  of  woe  ? 
Why  flatter  her,  lachrymose  elegies  weaving, 

Because  she  is  false  for  a  youthfuller  beau  ? 

There's  Lycoris,  the  maid  with  the  small  rounded 

forehead, 

For  Cyrus  is  wasting  by  inches  away, 
Whilst  for  Pholoe  he,  with  a  passion  as  torrid, 
Consumes,  and  to  him  she  11  have  nothing  to  say. 

The  she-goats,  in  fact,  might  be  sooner  expected 
Apulia's  wolves  for  their  partners  to  take, 

Than  a  girl  so  divine  to  be  ever  connected 
With  such  an  abandoned  and  pitiful  rake. 

Such  caprices  hath  Yenus,  who,  rarely  propitious, 
Delights  in  her  fetters  of  iron  to  bind 

Those  pairs  whom  she  sees,  with  a  pleasure  malicious: 
Unmatched  both  in  fortune,  and  figure,  and  mind 

I  myself,  woo'd  by  one  that  was  truly  a  jewel, 
In  thraldom  was  held,  which  I  cheerfully  bore, 

By  that  common  chit,  Myrtale,  though  she  was  crue] 
As  waves  that  indent  the  Calabrian  shore. 


ODE  XXXIV.     THE  POET'S  CONFESSION. 


ODE  XXXIV. 

THE  POET'S  CONFESSION. 

Unto  the  gods  my  vows  were  scant 
And  few,  whilst  I  profess'd  the  cant 

Of  philosophic  lore, 
But  now  I  back  my  sails  perforce, 
Fain  to  retrace  the  beaten  course, 

I  had  contemned  before. 

For  Jove,  who  with  his  forked  levin 
Is  wont  to  rend  the  louring  heaven, 

Of  late  with  hurtlings  loud 
His  thunder-pacing  steeds  did  urge, 
And  winged  car  along  the  verge 

Of  skies  without  a  cloud ; 

Whereat  the  huge  earth  reel'd  with  fear, 
The  rivers,  Styx,  the  portal  drear 

Of  Taenarus  abhorr'd, 
While  distant  Atlas  caught  the  sound, 
And  quiver'd  to  its  farthest  bound. 

The  world's  great  god  and  lord 

Can  change  the  lofty  to  the  low, 
The  mighty  ones  of  earth  o'erthrow, 

Advancing  the  obscure ; 
Fate  wrests  the  crown  from  lordly  brow 
On  his  to  plant  it,  who  but  now 

Was  poorest  of  the  poor. 


ODE  TO  FORTUNE. 


ODE  XXXV. 

TO  FORTUNE. 

O  pleasant  Antium's  goddess  queen, 

Whose  presence  hath  avail 
Mortals  to  lift  from  mean  estate. 
Or  change  triumphal  hymns  elate 

To  notes  of  funeral  wail ; 

Thee  with  heart-anxious  prayer  invokes 

The  rustic  at  the  plough, 
Thee,  mistress  of  the  ocean-wave, 
Whoe'er  Carpathia's  surges  brave 

With  frail  JBithynian  prow ; 

Thee  Scythia's  ever  roving  hordes, 

And  Dacians  rude  revere, 
Cities,  and  tribes,  Rome's  dauntless  band, 
Barbaric  monarchs'  mothers,  and 

Empurpled  tyrants  fear ; 

Lest  thou  shouldst  crush  their  pillar'd  state 

Beneath  thy  whelming  foot, 
Lest  madding  crowds  with  shrill  alarms 
Pealing  the  cry,  "  To  arms  !  To  arms  !  " 

Should  seated  thrones  uproot. 

Before  thee  evermore  doth  Fate 

Stalk  phantom-like,  and  bear 
In  brazen  hand  huge  nails  dispread ; 
And  wedges  grim,  and  molten  lead, 

And  iron  clamps  are  there. 


ODE  XXXV.     TO  FORTUNE. 


81 


Thee  Hope  attend,  and  Truth  rare-seen, 

In  vestments  snowy-dyed, 
Nor  quit  thee,  though  in  changed  array 
Thou  turn  with  angry  frown  away 

From  halls  of  stately  pride. 

But  the  unfaithful  harlot  herd 

Slink  back.  Howe'er  they  cling, 
Once  to  the  lees  the  wine-vat  drain, 
And  shrinking  from  the  yoke  of  pain, 

These  summer  friends  take  wing ! 

Our  Caesar's  way  to  Britain  guard 

Earth's  farthest  boundary, 
And  make  our  youthful  hosts  thy  care, 
Who  terror  to  the  East  shall  bear, 

And  the  far  Indian  sea  ! 

By  brothers'  blows,  by  brothers'  blood, 

Our  souls  are  gash'd  and  stain'd. 
Alas !  what  horror  have  we  fled  ? 
What  crime  not  wrought  ?  When  hath  the  dread 

Of  heav'n  our  youth  restrain'd  ? 

Where  is  the  altar  unprofaned 

By  them  ?    O  may  we  see 
Thy  hand  new-whet  their  blunted  swords, 
To  smite  Arabia's  tented  hordes, 

And  the  Massagetse ! 


ODE  XXXVI.     TO  NUMIDA. 


ODE  XXXVI. 

TO  NUMIDA. 

Sing,  comrades,  sing,  let  incense  burn, 
And  blood  of  votive  heifer  flow 
Unto  the  gods,  to  whom  we  owe 
Our  Numida's  return ! 

Warm  greetings  many  wait  him  here, 
From  farthest  Spain  restored,  but  none 
From  him  return  so  warm  hath  won, 
As  Lamia's,  chiefly  dear. 

His  boyhood's  friend,  in  school  and  play, 
Together  manhood's  gown  they  donn'd  ; 
Then  mark  with  white,  all  days  beyond, 
This  most  auspicious  day. 

Bid  wine  flow  fast  without  control, 
And  let  the  dancers'  merry  feet 
The  ground  in  Saliar  manner  beat, 
And  Bassus  drain  the  bowl, 

Unbreathed,  or  own  the  mastering  power 
Of  Damalis  ;  and  roses  fair, 
And  parsley's  vivid  green  be  there, 
And  lilies  of  an  hour  ! 

On  Damalis  shall  fond  looks  be  bent, 
But  sooner  shall  the  ivy  be 
Torn  from  its  wedded  oak,  than  she 
Be  from  her  new  love  rent. 


ODE  XXXVII.     TO  HIS  COMPANIONS.  93 


ODE  XXXVII. 

TO  HIS  COMPANIONS. 

Now,  comrades,  fill  each  goblet  to  the  brim, 

Now,  now  with  bounding  footsteps  strike  the 
ground, 

With  costliest  offerings  every  fane  be  crown'd, 
Laud  we  the  gods  with  thousand- voiced  hymn ! 

It  had  been  impious,  till  this  glad  hour 
To  bid  our  grandsires'  Csecuban  to  flow, 
While  Egypt's  queen  was  listed  to  o'erthrow 

Rome's  empire,  Rome  itself,  —  home,  temple,  tower ! 

O,  doting  dream  !  —  She,  with  her  eunuch  train, 

Effeminate  and  vile,  to  conquer  us ! 

Drunk  with  success,  and  madly  venturous, 
Swift  ruin  quell'd  the  fever  of  her  brain. 

Her  fleet,  save  one  poor  bark,  in  flames  and  wrack, 
The  frenzied  fumes,  by  Egypt's  vintage  bred, 
Were  turn'd  to  real  terrors  as  she  fled, 

Fled  from  our  shores  with  Caesar  on  her  track. 

As  hawk  pursues  the  dove,  as  o'er  the  plains 
Of  snow-wrapt  Scythia,  like  the  driving  wind, 
The  huntsman  tracks  the  hare,  he  swept  behind, 

To  fix  that  fair  and  fatal  pest  in  chains. 

But  her's  no  spirit  was  to  perish  meanly ; 
A  woman,  yet  not  womanishly  weak, 
She  ran  her  galley  to  no  sheltering  creek, 

Nor  quail'd  before  the  sword,  but  met  it  queenly. 


94        ODE  XXXVII.     TO  HIS  COMPANIONS. 


So  to  her  lonely  palace-halls  she  came, 
With  eye  serene  their  desolation  view'd, 
And  with  firm  hand  the  angry  aspics  woo'd 

To  dart  their  deadliest  venom  through  her  frame 

Then  with  a  prideful  smile  she  sank ;  for  she 
Had  robb'd  Rome's  galleys  of  their  royal  prize, 
Queen  to  the  last,  and  ne'er  in  humbled  guise 

To  swell  a  triumph's  haughty  pageantry ! 


ODE  XXXVIII.     TO  HIS  CUP-BEARER. 


ODE  XXXVIII. 

TO  HIS  CUP-BEARER. 

Persia's  pomp,  my  boy,  I  hate, 
No  coronals  of  flowerets  rare 

For  me  on  bark  of  linden  plait, 
Nor  seek  thou  to  discover  where 

The  lush  rose  lingers  late. 

With  unpretending  myrtle  twine 
Naught  else  !  It  fits  your  brows, 

Attending  me,  it  graces  mine, 
As  I  in  happy  ease  carouse 

Beneath  the  thick-leaved  vine. 


BOOK  II. 


ODE  I.     TO  ASINIUS  POLLIO 


99 


ODE  I. 
TO  ASINIUS  POLLIO. 

The  civil  broils  that  date 
Back  from  Metellus'  luckless  consulate, 

The  causes  of  the  strife, 
Its  vices,  with  fresh  seeds  of  turmoil  rife, 

The  turns  of  fortune's  tide, 
The  leagues  of  chiefs  to  direful  ends  allied, 

The  arms  of  Romans  wet 
With  brothers'  blood,  not  expiated  yet, 

These  are  thy  chosen  theme, 
An  enterprise  that  doth  with  peril  teem, 

For  everywhere  thy  tread 
On  ashes  falls,  o'er  lull'd  volcanoes  thinly  spread  ! 

Mute  for  some  little  time 
Must  be  the  Muse  of  tragedy  sublime 

Within  our  theatres  ;  anon, 
The  task  of  chronicling  our  story  done, 

Thy  noble  bent  pursue, 
And  the  Cecropian  buskin  don  anew, 

Pollio,  thou  shield  unstain'd 
Of  woful  souls,  that  are  of  guilt  arraign'd, 

On  whose  persuasive  tongue 
The  senate  oft  in  deep  debate  hath  hung, 

Whose  fame  for  laurels  won 
In  fields  Dalmatian  shall  through  farthest  ages  run ! 


100 


ODE  I.     TO  ASINIUS  POLLIO. 


And  now  our  ears  you  pierce 
With  clarions  shrill,  and  trumpets'  threatenings 
fierce, 

Now  flashing  arms  affright 
Horses  and  riders,  scattering  both  in  flight ; 

Now  do  I  seem  to  hear 
The  shouting  of  the  mighty  leaders  near, 

And  see  them  strike  and  thrust, 
Begrimed  with  not  unhonourable  dust ; 

And  all  earth  own  control, 
All,  all  save  only  Cato's  unrelenting  soul ! 

Juno,  and  whosoe'er 
Among  the  gods  made  Afric's  sons  their  care, 

On  that  same  soil,  which  they, 
Of  vengeance  foiled,  had  turned  from  in  dismay, 

Unto  Jugurtha's  shade 
His  victor's  grandsons  as  an  offering  paid. 

Where  is  the  plain,  that  by 
Its  mounds  sepulchral  doth  not  testify 

To  many  an  impious  fray, 
Where  Latian  blood  made  fat  the  yielding  clay, 

And  to  fell  havoc's  sound 
Peal'd  from  the  west  to  Media's  farthest  bound  ? 

What  bays,  what  rivers  are 
By  ills  unvisited  of  woful  war  ? 

What  oceans  by  the  tide 
Of  slaughter  rolling  red  have  not  been  dyed  ? 

Where  shall  be  found  the  shore, 
Is  not  incarnadined  by  Roman  gore  ? 

But,  froward  Muse,  refrain, 
Affect  not  thou  the  elegiac  strain  ! 

With  lighter  touch  essay 
In  Dionaean  cave  with  me  some  sprightlier  lay ! 


ODE  II.     TO  CRISPUS  SALLUSTIUS. 


ODE  II. 

TO  CKISPUS  SALLUSTIUS. 

Nor  gold,  nor  silver,  buried  low 

Within  the  grudging  earth, 
With  lustre  doth  or  beauty  glow, 

'Tis  light  to  these  gives  birth. 
This  truth,  Sallustius,  thou  dost  make 

Thy  law,  thou  foe  to  pelf, 
Unless  from  temperate  use  it  take 

A  sheen  beyond  itself; 

Such  use  as  Proculeius  taught ; 

Pre-eminently  known 
For  all  a  father's  loving  thought 

Unto  his  brothers  shown, 
Through  distant  ages  shall  his  name 

With  note  triumphant  ring, 
Borne  on  from  clime  to  clime  by  fame 

On  ever-soaring  wing. 

Subdue  the  lust  for  gold,  and  thine 

Will  be  an  ampler  reign, 
Than  if  thy  kingdom  should  combine 

Far  Ly bia  with  Spain ; 
A  grasping  spirit  to  o'ercome 

Is  better,  than  to  seize 
The  solely  sovereign  masterdom 

Of  both  the  Carthages. 


i02        ODE  II.     TO  CRISPUS  SALLUSTIUS. 

Hiat  scourge  of  man,  the  dropsy  fell, 

By  self-indulgence  nurst, 
Grows  worse  and  worse,  nor  can  expel 

The  still  increasing  thirst, 
Unless  the  cause,  which  bred  the  bale, 

Is  routed  from  the  veins, 
And  from  the  body's  tissues  pale 

The  watery  languor  drains. 

Wisdom,  who  doth  all  issues  test 

By  worth  and  worth  alone, 
Scorns  to  pronounce  Phraates  blest, 

Replaced  on  Cyrus'  throne ; 
From  vulgar  tongues,  that  swell  the  roar 

Of  clamour  differing  wide, 
It  teaches  them  to  deal  no  more 

In  phrases  misapplied. 

For  only  he  is  king  indeed, 

And  may  securely  wear 
The  diadem,  and,  nobler  meed, 

The  laurel  garland  fair, 
Who,  even  where  piles  of  treasure  lie, 

Preserves  an  even  mind, 
And  passing  them  without  a  sigh, 

Cares  not  to  look  behind. 


ODE  III.     TO  DELLIUS. 


103 


ODE  III. 

TO  DELLIUS. 

Let  not  the  frowns  of  fate 

Disquiet  thee,  my  friend, 
Nor,  when  she  smiles  on  thee,  do  thou,  elate 

With*vaunting  thoughts,  ascend 
Beyond  the  limits  of  becoming  mirth, 
For,  Dellius,  thou  must  die,  become  a  clod  of  earth 

Whether  thy  days  go  down 

In  gloom,  and  dull  regrets, 
Or,  shunning  life's  vain  struggle  for  renown, 

Its  fever  and  its  frets, 
Stretch'd  on  the  grass,  with  old  Falernian  wine, 
Thou  giv'st  the  thoughtless  hours  a  rapture  all  divine. 

Where  the  tall  spreading  pine, 

And  white-leaved  poplar  grow, 
And  mingling  their  broad  boughs  in  leafy  twine, 

A  grateful  shadow  throw, 
Where  runs  the  wimpling  brook,  its  slumb'rous  tune 
Still  mumuring,  as  it  runs,  to  the  hush'd  ear  of  noon ; 

There  wine,  there  perfumes  bring, 

Bring  garlands  of  the  rose, 
Fair  and  too  short-lived  daughter  of  the  spring, 

While  youth's  bright  current  flows 
Within  thy  veins,  —  ere  yet  hath  come  the  hour, 
When  the  dread  sisters  three  shall  clutch  thee  in 
their  power. 


104 


ODE  III.     TO  DELLIUS. 


Thy  woods,  thy  treasured  pride, 

Thy  mansion's  pleasant  seat, 
Thy  lawns  washed  by  the  Tiber's  yellow  tide, 

Each  favourite  retreat, 
Thou  must  leave  all,  —  all,  and  thine  heir  shall  ruio 
In  riot  through  the  wealth  thy  years  of  toil  have  won, 

It  recks  not,  whether  thou 

Be  opulent,  and  trace 
Thy  birth  from  kings,  or  bear  upon  thy  brow 

Stamp  of  a  beggar's  race  ; 
Be  what  thou  wilt,  full  surely  must  thou  fall, 
For  Orcus,  ruthless  king,  swoops  equally  on  all. 

Yes,  all  are  hurrying  fast 

To  the  one  common  bourne ; 
Sooner  or  later  will  the  lot  at  last 

Drop  from  the  fatal  urn, 
Which  sends  thee  hence  in  the  grim  Stygian  bark, 
To  dwell  forevermore  in  cheerless  realms  and  dark. 


<VDE  Vr      TO  XANTHIAS  PHOCEUft.  305 


ODE  IV. 

TO  XANTHIAS  PHOCEUS. 

Nay,  Xanthias,  my  friend,  never  blush,  man — no,  no! 
Why  should  you  not  love  your  own  maid,  if  you 
please  V 

JBriseis  of  old,  with  her  bosom  of  snow, 

Brought  the  haughty  Achilles  himself  to  his  knees. 

By  his  captive,  Tecmessa,  was  Telamon's  son, 
Stout  Ajax,  to  willing  captivity  tamed  ; 

Atrides,  in  triumph,  was  wholly  undone, 

With  love  for  the  slave  of  his  war-spear  inflamed, 

In  the  hot  hour  of  triumph,  when  quell'd  by  the  spear 
Of  Pelides,  in  heaps  the  barbarians  lay  ; 

And  Troy,  with  her  Hector  no  longer  to  fear, 
To  the  war-wearied  Greeks  fell  an  easier  prey. 

For  aught  that  you  know,  now,  fair  Phyllis  may  be 

The  shoot  of  some  highly  respectable  stem  ; 
Nay,  she  counts,  I  '11  be  sworn,  a  few  kings  in  her 
tree, 

And  laments  the  lost  acres  once  lorded  by  them. 

Never  think  that  a  creature  so  exquisite  grew 
In  the  haunts  where  but  vice  and  dishonour  are 
known, 

Nor  deem  that  a  girl  so  unselfish,  so  true, 

Had  a  mother 't  would  shame  thee  to  take  for 
thine  own. 

5  * 


10b         ODE  IV.     TO  XANTHIAS  PHOCkUd. 

I  extol  with  free  heart,  and  with  fancy  as  free, 
Her  sweet  face,  fine  ancles,  and  tapering  arms. 

How  !  Jealous  ?  Nay,  trust  an  old  fellow  like  me, 
Who  can  feel,  but  not  follow,  where  loveliness 
charms. 


ODE  V.     TO  A  FRIEND. 


107 


ODE  V. 

TO  A  FRIEND. 

Have  patience  !  She 's  plainly  too  tender,  you  see, 
The  yoke  on  her  delicate  shoulders  to  bear, 

So  young  as  she  is,  fit  she  never  could  be 

His  task  with  the  gentlest  yoke-fellow  to  share, 

Or  brook  the  assault  of  the  ponderous  bull, 

Rushing  headlong  the  fire  of  his  passion  to  cool. 

At  present  your  heifer  finds  all  her  delight 
In  wandering  o'er  the  green  meadows  at  will, 

In  cooling  her  sides,  when  the  sun  is  at  height ; 
In  the  iciest  pools  of  some  mountain-fed  rill, 

Or  'mid  the  dank  osier-beds  bounding  in  play 

With  the  young  calves,  as  sportive  and  skittish  as 
they. 

For  unripe  grapes  to  long  is  mere  folly  ;  soon,  too, 
Many-tinted  Autumnus  with  purple  will  dye 

Thy  clusters  that  now  wear  so  livid  a  hue  ; 
And  so  after  thee,  soon,  her  glances  will  fly, 

For  merciless  Time  to  her  count  will  assign 

The  swift  speeding  years,  as  she  takes  them  from 
thine. 

And  then  will  thy  Lalage  long  for  a  lord, 
Nor  shrink  from  the  secrets  of  conjugal  joy ; 

By  thee  she  will  be,  too,  more  fondly  adored, 
Than  Pholoe's  self,  or  than  Chloris  the  coy, 

Her  beautiful  shoulders  resplendently  white 

As  the  moon,  when  it  silvers  the  ocean  by  nigh* 


108 


ODE  V.     TO  A  FRIEND. 


Or  as  Gnidian  Gyges,  whom  were  you  to  place 
In  the  midst  of  a  bevy  of  sunny-brow'd  girls, 

So  boyish,  so  girlish  at  once  is  his  face, 
So  silken  the  flow  of  his  clustering  curls, 

'T  would  puzzle  the  skilfullest  judge  to  declare, 

If  Gyges  or  they  were  more  maidenly  fair. 


ODE  VI.     TO  SEPTTMIUS. 


109 


ODE  VI. 

TO  SEPTIMIUS. 

Septimius,  that  wouldst,  I  know, 
With  me  to  distant  Gades  go, 
And  visit  the  Cantabrian  fell, 
Whom  all  our  triumphs  cannot  quell, 
And  even  the  sands  barbarian  brave, 
Where  ceaseless  seethes  the  Moorish  wave  ; 

May  Tibur,  that  delightful  haunt, 
Rear'd  by  an  Argive  emigrant, 
The  tranquil  haven  be,  I  pray, 
For  my  old  age  to  wear  away, 
O,  may  it  be  the  final  bourne 
To  one  with  war  and  travel  worn  ! 

But  should  the  cruel  Fates  decree, 

That  this,  my  friend,  shall  never  be, 

Then  to  Galaesus,  river  sweet 

To  skin-clad  flocks,  will  I  retreat, 

And  those  rich  meads,  where  sway  of  yore 

Laconian  Phalanthus  bore. 

In  all  the  world  no  spot  there  is, 
That  wears  for  me  a  smile  like  this, 
The  honey  of  whose  thymy  fields 
.  May  vie  with  what  Hymettus  yields, 
Where  berries  clustering  every  slope 
May  with  Venafr urn's  greenest  cope. 


110 


ODE  VI.     TO  SEPTTMIUS. 


There  Jove  accords  a  lengthened  spring, 
And  winters  wanting  winter's  sting, 
And  sunny  Aulon's  broad  incline 
Such  mettle  puts  into  the  vine, 
Its  clusters  need  not  envy  those, 
Which  fiery  Falernuni  grows. 

Thyself  and  me  that  spot  invites, 
Those  pleasant  fields,  those  sunny  heights ; 
And  there,  to  life's  last  moments  true, 
Wilt  thou  with  some  fond  tears  bedew  — 
The  last  sad  tribute  love  can  lend  — 
The  ashes  of  thy  poet  friend- 


ODE  VII.     TO  POMPEIUS  VARUS.  Ill 


ODE  VII. 


TO  POMPEIUS  VARUS. 

Dear  comrade,  in  the  days  when  thou  and  I 
With  Brutus  took  the  field,  his  perils  bore, 
Who  hath  restored  thee,  freely  as  of  yore, 

To  thy  home  gods,  and  loved  Italian  sky, 

Pompey,  who  wert  the  first  my  heart  to  share ; 
With  whom  full  oft  I  Ve  sped  the  lingering  day 
Quaffing  bright  wine,  as  in  our  tents  we  lay, 

With  Syrian  spikenard  on  our  glistening  hair  ? 

With  thee  I  shared  Philippic  headlong  flight, 
My  shield  behind  me  left,  which  was  not  well, 
When  all  that  brave  array  was  broke,  and  fell 

In  the  vile  dust  full  many  a  towering  wight. 

But  me,  poor  trembler,  swift  Mercurius  bore, 
Wrapp'd  in  a  cloud,  through  all  the  hostile  din, 
Whilst  war's  tumultuous  eddies,  closing  in, 

Swept  thee  away  into  the  strife  once  more. 

Then  pay  to  Jove  the  feasts,  that  are  his  fee, 

And  stretch  at  ease  these  war-worn  limbs  of  thine 
Beneath  my  laurel's  shade  ;  nor  spare  the  wine 

Which  I  have  treasured  through  long  years  for  thee. 


112  ODE  VII.     TO  POMPEIUS  VARUS. 

Pour  till  it  touch  the  shining  goblet's  rim 

Care-drowning  Massic  :  let  rich  ointments  flow 
From  amplest  conchs  !  No  measure  we  shall  know 

What !  shall  we  wreaths  of  oozy  parsley  trim, 

Or  simple  myrtle  ?  Whom  will  Venus  send 
To  rule  our  revel  ?  Wild  my  draughts  shall  be 
As  Thracian  Bacchanals',  for 't  is  sweet  to  me, 

To  lose  my  wits,  when  I  regain  my  friend. 


ODE  VIII.     TO  BABINE. 


113 


ODE  VIII. 

TO  BARINE. 

If  e'er,  in  vengeance  for  thy  faithlessness, 
Heaven  had  but  made  thy  charms  one  charm  the  less, 
Blacken'd  one  tooth,  or  tarnish'd  one  bright  nail, 
Then  I,  Barine,  might  believe  thy  tale. 
But  soon  as  thou  hast  laid  all  kinds  of  vows 
And  plighted  oaths  on  those  perfidious  brows, 
Thy  beauty  heightens  into  rarer  dyes, 
And  all  our  young  men  haunt  thy  steps  with  fever- 
ish eyes. 

It  profits  thee,  fair  mischief,  thus  to  spurn 
The  deep  vows  plighted  by  thy  mother's  urn, 
By  all  the  silent  stars  that  gem  the  night, 
And  by  the  gods,  whom  death  may  never  blight. 
Venus  herself  doth  smile  to  hear  thee  swear, 
Smile  the  sweet  nymphs  beneath  their  sunny  hair ; 
And  Cupid,  unrelenting  boy,  doth  smile, 
Pointing  on  gory  stone  his  burning  shafts  the  while. 

To  thee  our  youth's  best  flower  in  homage  kneels, 
New  slaves  bend  daily  at  thy  chariot-wheels  ; 
And  they,  who  oft  have  sworn  to  haunt  no  more 
Thy  fatal  home,  still  linger  as  before. 
Mothers  all  dread  thee  for  their  boys,  and  old 
Fond  fathers  fear  thy  havoc  with  their  gold ; 
The  bane  art  thou  of  every  new-made  bride, 
Lest  thy  soft  air  should  waft  her  husband  from  her 
side. 

H 


114 


ODE  IX.     TO  VALGTTT*. 


ODE  IX. 

TO  VALGIUS. 

Not  always  from  the  clouds  are  rains 

Descending  on  the  oozy  plains, 

Not  always  o'er  the  Caspian  deep 

Do  gusts  of  angry  tempest  sweep, 

Nor  month  on  month,  the  long  year  through, 

Dear  Valgius,  valued  friend  and  true, 

Is  frost's  benumbing  mantle  round 

The  high  lands  of  Armenia  wound  ; 

Not  always  groan  Garganus'  oaks 

Before  the  northwind's  furious  strokes, 

Nor  is  the  ash-tree  always  seen 

Stript  of  its  garniture  of  green  ; 

Yet  thou  alway  in  strains  forlorn 

Thy  Mystes  dead  dost  fondly  mourn, 

Lamenting  still  at  Hesper's  rise, 

And  when  the  rapid  sun  he  flies. 

Remember,  friend,  that  sage  old  man, 
Whose  years  were  thrice  our  common  span, 
Did  not  through  all  their  lengthened  tale 
His  loved  Antilochus  bewail : 
Nor  did  his  parents,  lonely  left, 
Of  their  still  budding  darling  reft, 
Nor  Phrygian  sisters  evermore 
The  slaughtered  Troilus  deplore. 


ODE  IX.     TO  VALGIUS. 


115 


Forbear,  then,  longer  to  complain, 
Renounce  this  enervating  strain, 
And  rather  let  us,  thou  and  I, 
Combine  to  sing  in  measures  high 
The  trophies  newly  won  by  great 
Augustus  Caesar  for  the  state ; 
Niphates'  icy  peak,  the  proud 
Euphrates,  added  to  the  crowd 
Of  nations,  that  confess  our  power, 
A  humbler  river  from  this  hour, 
And  the  Gelonians  forced  to  rein 
Their  steeds  within  a  bounded  plain. 


ODE  X.     TO  LICTNIUS. 


ODE  X. 
to  Licmus. 

If  thou  wouldst  live  secure  and  free, 
Thou  wilt  not  keep  far  out  at  sea, 

Licinius,  evermore ; 
Nor,  fearful  of  the  gales  that  sweep 
The  ocean  wide,  too  closely  creep 

Along  the  treacherous  shore. 

The  man,  who  with  a  soul  serene 
Doth  cultivate  the  golden  mean, 

Escapes  alike  from  all 
The  squalor  of  a  sordid  cot, 
And  from  the  jealousies  begot 

By  wealth  in  lordly  hall. 

The  mighty  pine  is  ever  most 

By  wild  winds  sway'd  about  and  toss'd, 

With  most  disastrous  crash 
Fall  high-topp'd  towers,  and  ever,  where 
The  mountain's  summit  points  in  air, 

Do  bolted  lightnings  flash. 

When  fortune  frowns,  a  well-train'd  mind 
Will  hope  for  change ;  when  she  is  kind, 

A  change  no  less  will  fear : 
If  haggard  winters  o'er  the  land 
By  Jove  are  spread,  at  his  command 

In  time  they  disappear. 


ODE  X.     TO  LICTNIUS. 


117 


Though  now  they  may,  be  sure  of  this, 
Things  will  not  always  go  amiss ; 

Not  always  bends  in  ire 
Apollo  his  dread  bow,  but  takes 
The  lyre  and  from  her  trance  awakes 

The  Muse  with  touch  of  fire. 

Though  sorrows  strike,  and  comrades  shrink, 
Yet  never  let  your  spirits  sink, 

But  to  yourself  be  true  ; 
So  wisely,  when  yourself  you  find 
Scudding  before  too  fair  a  wind, 

Take  in  a  reef  or  two. 


118        ODE  XI.     TO  QUINTIUS  HIRPINUS. 


ODE  XI. 

TO  QUINTIUS  HIRPINUS. 

What  the  warlike  Cantabrian  or  Scyth  may  design, 
Dear  Quintius  Hirpinus,  ne  'er  stay  to  divine, 
With  the  broad  Adriatic  'twixt  them  arid  yourself, 
You  surely  may  lay  all  your  fears  on  the  shelf. 

And  fret  not  your  soul  with  uneasy  desires 
For  the  wants  of  a  life,  which  but  little  requires ; 
Youth  and  beauty  fade  fast,  and  age,  sapless  and 
hoar, 

Tastes  of  love  and  the  sleep  that  comes  lightly  no 
more. 

Spring  flowers  bloom  not  always  fresh,  fragrant,  and 
bright, 

The  moon  beams  not  always  full-orb'd  on  the  night ; 
Then  wherefore  should  you,  who  are  mortal,  outwear 
Your  soul  with  a  profitless  burden  of  care  ? 

Say,  why  should  we  not,  flung  at  ease  'neath  this 
pine, 

Or  a  plane-tree's  broad  umbrage,  quaff  gayly  our 
wine, 

While  the  odours  of  Syrian  nard,  and  the  rose 
Breathe  sweet  from  locks  tipp'd,  and  just  tipp'dwith 
Time's  snows. 


ODE  XI.     TO  QUINTIUS  HIRPINUS.  119 

T  is  Bacchus,  great  Bacchus,  alone  has  the  art 
To  drive  away  cares,  that  are  eating  the  heart. 
What  boy,  then,  shall  best  in  the  brook's  deepest 
pool 

Our  cups  of  the  fiery  Falernian  cool  ? 

And  who  from  her  home  shall  fair  Lyde  seduce, 
And  bring  to  our  revel  that  charming  recluse  ? 
Bid  her  haste  with  her  ivory  lyre  to  the  spot, 
Tying  up  her  brown  hair  in  a  plain  Spartan  knot. 


120 


ODE  XII.    TO  MJECEXAS. 


ODE  XII. 

TO  MAECENAS. 

Bid  me  not  sing  to  my  nerveless  string 
The  wars  of  jSumantia  long  and  bloody, 

Nor  Hannibal  dread,  nor  the  ocean's  bed 
With  the  gore  of  our  Punic  foemen  ruddy ; 

Nor  the  Lapithas  fierce,  nor  Hylaeus  flush'd 

With  wine,  nor  the  earth-born  brood  Titanic, 
WTiom  the  death-dealing  hand  of  Alcides  crush'd, 
Though  they  smote  the  Saturnian  halls  with  panic 

And  thou,  my  Maecenas,  shalt  fitlier  tell 
The  battles  of  Caesar  in  stateliest  story, 

Tell  of  kings,  who  defied  us  with  menaces  fell, 
Led  on  through  our  streets  in  the  triumph's  glory 

My  muse  to  Licymnia  alone  replies, 

To  her  warbling  voice,  that  divinely  sways  thee, 
To  the  gleam  of  her  Hashing  and  lustrous  eyes, 

And  true  heart  that  passion  for  passion  repays  thee. 

Ah,  well  doth  the  roundel  beseem  her  charms, 
Sparkling  her  wit,  and,  with  loveliest  vestals 

Most  worthy  is  she  to  enlace  her  arms 
In  the  dances  of  Dian's  hilarious  festals. 


ODE  XII.      TO  MAECENAS. 


121 


Would  you,  friend,  for  Phrygia's  hoarded  gold, 
Or  all  that  Achsemenes  self  possesses, 

Or  e'en  for  what  Araby's  coffers  hold, 
Barter  one  lock  of  her  clustering  tresses, 

While  she  bends  down  her  throat  to  your  burning 
kiss, 

Or,  fondly  cruel,  the  joy  denies  you, 
She  'd  have  you  snatch,  or  at  times  the  bliss 
Herself  will  snatch,  and  with  joy  surprise  you  ? 


8 


122  ODE  XIII.  TO  THE  TREE  BY  WHOSE  FALL 


ODE  XIII. 

TO  THE  TREE  BY  WHOSE  FALL  HIS  LIFE 
WAS  ENDANGERED. 

Whate'er  his  station  in  the  land, 

In  evil  hour  he  planted  thee, 
And  with  a  sacrilegious  hand 

He  nursed,  and  trained  thee  up  to  be 
The  bane  of  his  succeeding  race, 
And  of  our  hamlet  the  disgrace. 

He  strangled,  ay,  and  with  a  zest, 

His  very  father,  and  at  dead 
Of  night  stole  in  upon  his  guest, 

And  stabb'd  him  sleeping  in  his  bed ; 
Brew'd  Colchian  poisons  in  his  time, 
And  practised  every  sort  of  crime 

All  this  he  must  have  done  —  or  could  — 

I 'm  sure,  —  the  wretch,  that  stuck  thee  down, 

Thou  miserable  stump  of  wood, 
To  topple  on  thy  master's  crown, 

Who  ne'er  designed  thee  any  harm, 

Here  on  my  own,  my  favourite  farm. 

No  mortal  due  provision  makes 

'Gainst  ills  which  any  hour  may  fall ; 

The  Carthaginian  sailor  quakes 
To  think  of  a  Levantine  squall, 

But  feels  no  terror  for  the  fate, 

That  elsewhere  may  his  bark  await. 


HIS  LIFE  WAS  ENDANGERED. 


1 


Our  soldiers  dread  the  arrows  sped 
By  Partisans  shooting  as  they  nee ; 

And  in  their  turn  the  Parthians  dread 
The  chains  and  keeps  of  Italy  ; 

But  death  will  tear,  as  now  it  tears, 

Whole  nations  down  at  unawares 

How  nearly  in  her  realms  of  gloom 

I  dusky  Proserpine  had  seen, 
Seen  iEacus  dispensing  doom, 

And  the  Elysian  fields  serene, 
Heard  Sappho  to  her  lute  complain 
Of  unrequited  passion's  pain  ; 

Heard  thee,  too,  O  Alcseus,  tell, 
Striking  the  while  thy  golden  lyre, 

With  fuller  note  and  statelier  swell, 
The  sorrows  and  disasters  dire 

Of  warfare  and  the  ocean  deep, 

And  those  that  far  in  exile  weep. 

While  shades  round  either  singer  throng, 

And  the  deserved  tribute  pay 
Of  sacred  silence  to  their  song, 

Yet  chiefly  crowd  to  hear  the  lay 
Of  battles  old  to  story  known, 
And  haughty  tyrants  overthrown. 

What  wonder  they,  their  ears  to  feast, 
Should  thickly  throng,  when  by  these  lay 

Entranced,  the  hundred-headed  beast 
Drops  his  black  ears  in  sweet  amaze, 

And  even  the  snakes  are  charmed,  as  they 

Among  the  Furies'  tresses  play. 

Nay  even  Prometheus,  and  the  sire 
Of  Pelops,  cheated  of  their  pains, 

Forget  awhile  their  doom  of  ire 

In  listening  to  the  wondrous  strains; 

Nor  doth  Orion  longer  care 

To  hunt  the  lynx  or  lion  there. 


124 


ODE  XIV.     TO  POSTHUMUS. 


ODE  XIV. 

TO  POSTHUMUS. 

Ah,  Posthumus,  the  years,  the  fleeting  years 
Stiil  onwards,  onwards  glide  ; 
Nor  mortal  virtue  may 
Time's  wrinkling  fingers  stay, 
Nor  Age's  sure  advance,  nor  Death's  all-conquering 
stride. 

Hope  not  by  daily  hecatombs  of  bulls 
From  Pluto  to  redeem 
Thy  life,  who  holds  thrice  vast 
Geryon  fetter'd  fast, 

And  Tityus,  by  the  waves  of  yonder  rueful  stream. 

Sad  stream,  we  all  are  doom'd  one  day  to  cross, 

Ay,  all  that  live  by  bread, 

Whate'er  our  lot  may  be, 

Great  lords  of  high  degree, 

Alike  with  peasant  churls,  who  scantily  are  fed. 

In  vain  shall  we  war's  bloody  conflict  shun, 

And  the  hoarse  scudding  gale 

Of  Adriatic  seas, 

Or  fly  the  southern  breeze, 

That  through  the  Autumn  hours  wafts  pestilence  and 
bale. 


ODE  XIV.     TO  POSTHUMUS.  125 

For  all  must  view  Cocytus'  pitchy  tide 

Meandering  slow,  and  see 

The  accursed  Danaids  moil, 

And  that  dread  stone  recoil, 

Sad  Sisyphus  is  doom'd  to  upheave  eternally. 

Land,  home,  and  winsome  wife  must  all  be  left ; 

And  cypresses  abhorr'd, 

Alone  of  all  the  trees 

That  now  your  fancy  please, 

Shall  shade  the  dust  of  him,  who  was  their  sometime 
lord. 

Then,  too,  your  long  imprison'd  Caecuban 
A  worthier  heir  shall  drain, 
And  with  a  lordlier  wine, 
Than  at  the  feasts  divine 

Of  pontiffs  flows,  your  floor  in  wassailry  shall  stain. 


126    ODE  XY.    OX  THE  PREVAILING  LUXURY. 


ODE  XV. 

ON  THE  PREVAILING  LUXURY. 

Soox  regal  piles  each  rood  of  land, 
"Will  from  the  farmer's  ploughshare  take, 

Soon  ponds  be  seen  on  every  hand 
More  spacious  than  the  Lucrine  lake. 

Soon  the  unwedded  plane  displace 

The  vine-wreathecl  elm  ;  and  violet  bed 

And  myrtle  bush,  and  all  the  race 

Of  scented  shrubs  their  fragrance  shed, 

Where  fertile  olive  thickets  made 
Their  owner  rich  in  days  of  old ; 

And  laurels  with  thick-woven  shade 
At  bay  the  scorching  sunbeams  hold. 

It  was  not  so  when  Romulus 

Our  greatness  fostered  in  its  prime, 

Nor  did  our  great  forefathers  thus, 
In  unshorn  Cato's  simple  time. 

Man's  private  fortunes  then  were  low, 
The  public  income  great ;  in  these 

Good  times  no  long  drawn  portico 

Caught  for  its  lord  the  northern  breeze. 


ODE  XV.    ON  THE  PREVAILING  LUXURY.  127 


Nor  did  the  laws  our  sires  permit 
Sods  dug  at  random  to  despise 

As  for  their  daily  homes  unfit ; 
And  yet  they  bade  our  cities  rise 

More  stately  at  the  public  charge, 
And  did,  to  their  religion  true, 

The  temples  of  the  gods  enlarge, 

And  with  fair-sculptured  stone  renew. 


128 


ODE  XVI.     TO  GUOSPUUS. 


ODE  XVI, 

TO  GROSPHUS, 

For  ease  he  doth  the  gods  implore, 

Who,  tossing  on  the  wide 

Egean  billows,  sees  the  black  clouds  hide 
The  moon,  and  the  sure  stars  appear  no  more, 

The  shipman's  course  to  guide. 

For  ease  the  sons  of  Thracia  cry, 
In  battle  uncontroll'd, 

For  ease  the  graceful-quivered  Median  bold, 
That  ease,  which  purple,  Grosphus,  cannot  buy, 
Nor  wealth  of  gems  or  gold. 

For  hoarded  treasure  cannot  keep 

Disquietudes  at  bay, 

Nor  can  the  consul's  lictor  drive  away 
The  brood  of  dark  solicitudes,  that  sweep 

Round  gilded  ceilings  gay. 

He  lives  on  little,  and  is  blest, 

On  whose  plain  board  the  bright 

Salt-cellar  shines,  which  was  his  sires'  delight, 
Nor  terrors,  nor  cupidity's  unrest 

Disturb  his  slumbers  light. 

Why  should  we  still  project  and  plan, 

We  creatures  of  an  hour  ? 

Why  fly  from  clime  to  clime,  new  regions  scour? 
Where  is  the  exile,  who,  since  time  began, 

To  fly  from  self  had  power  ? 


ODE  XVI.      TO  GROSPHUS. 


129 


Fell  Care  climbs  brazen  galleys'  sides ; 

Nor  troops  of  horse  can  fly 

Her  foot,  which  than  the  stag's  is  swifter,  ay, 
Swifter  than  Eurus,  when  he  madly  rides 

The  clouds  along  the  sky. 

Careless  what  lies  beyond  to  know, 

And  turning  to  the  best 

The  present,  meet  life's  bitters  with  a  jest, 
And  smile  them  down ;  since  nothing  here  below 

Is  altogether  blest. 

In  manhood's  prime  Achilles  died, 

Tithonus  by  the  slow 

Decay  of  age  was  wasted  to  a  show, 
And  Time  may  what  it  hath  to  thee  denied 

On  me  perchance  bestow. 

Round  thee  low  countless  herds  and  kine 
Of  Sicily ;  the  mare 

Apt  for  the  chariot  paws  for  thee  the  air, 
And  Afric's  costliest  dyes  incarnadine 
The  wools  which  thou  dost  wear. 

To  me  a  farm  of  modest  size, 
And  slender  vein  of  song, 

Such  as  in  Greece  flowed  vigorous  and  strong, 
Kind  fate  hath  given,  and  spirit  to  despise 
The  base,  malignant  throng. 


i 


130 


ODE  XVII.     TO  MAECENAS. 


ODE  XVII. 

TO  MAECENAS. 

Why  wilt  thou  kill  me  with  thy  boding  fears  ? 

Why,  O  Maecenas,  why  ? 
Before  thee  lies  a  train  of  happy  years ; 

Yee,  nor  the  gods  nor  I 
Could  brook  that  thou  shouldst  first  be  laid  in  dust, 
That  art  my  stay,  my  glory,  and  my  trust ! 

Ah,  if  untimely  Fate  should  snatch  thee  hence, 

Thee,  of  my  soul  a  part, 
Why  should  I  linger  on,  with  deaden'd  sense, 

And  ever-aching  heart, 
A  worthless  fragment  of  a  fallen  shrine  ? 
No,  no,  one  day  shall  see  thy  death  and  mine ! 

Think  not,  that  I  have  sworn  a  bootless  oath ; 

Yes,  we  shall  go,  shall  go, 
Hand  link 'd  in  hand,  whene'er  thou  leadest  both 

The  last  sad  road  below ! 
Me  nor  the  fell  Chimaara's  breath  of  fire, 
Nor  hundred-handed  Gyges,  through  in  ire 

He  rises  against  me,  from  thy  side  shali  sever ; 

For  in  such  sort  it  hath 
Pleased  the  dread  Fates,  and  Justice  potent  evs- 

To  interweave  our  path. 
Beneath  whatever  aspect  thou  wert  born, 
Libra,  or  Scorpion  fierce,  or  Capricorn, 


ODE  XVII.     TO  MAECENAS. 


131 


The  blustering  tyrant  of  the  western  deep, 

This  well  I  know,  my  friend, 
Our  stars  in  wondrous  wise  one  orbit  keep, 

And  in  one  radiance  blend. 
From  thee  were  Saturn's  baleful  rays  afar 
Averted  by  great  Jove's  refulgent  star, 

And  His  hand  stay'd  Fate's  downward-swooping 
wing,# 

When  thrice  with  glad  acclaim 
The  teeming  theatre  was  heard  to  ring, 

And  thine  the  honour'd  name : 
So  had  the  falling  timber  laid  me  low, 
But  Pan  in  mercy  warded  off  the  blow, 

Pan  who  keeps  watch  o'er  easy  souls  like  mine. 

Remember,  then,  to  rear 
In  gratitude  to  Jove  a  votive  shrine, 

And  slaughter  many  a  steer, 
Whilst  I,  as  fits,  an  humbler  tribute  pay, 
And  a  meek  lamb  upon  his  altar  lay. 


ODE  XVIII.      TO   A  MISER, 


ODE  XVIII. 

TO   A  MISER. 

TTithes"  my  dwelling  you  behold 
2s or  ivory,  nor  r  ~  :'  of  _•  ■'.  i  : 
There  no  Hymetrian  rafters  weigh 
On  columns  from  far  Air;  ?a  : 
!Nbr  Attalus?  imperial  chair 
Have  I  usurp'd.  a  spurious  heir. 
Nor  client  dames  of  high  degree 
Laconian  purples  spin  for  me  : 
But  a  true  heart  and  genial  vein 
Of  wit  are  mine,  and  great  men  deign 
To  court  my  company,  though  poor. 
For  naught  beyond  do  I  implore 
The  gods,  nor  crave  my  potent  friend 
A  larger  bounty  to  extend. 
With  what  he  gave  completely  blest, 
My  happy  little  Sabine  nest. 

Day  treads  down  day.  and  sinks  amain, 
And  new  moons  only  wax  to  wane, 
Yet  you.  upon  death's  very  brink, 
Of  piling  marbles  only  think, 
That  yet  are  in  the  quarry's  womb, 
And  all  unmindful  of  the  tomb. 
Rear  gorgeous  mansions  everywhere  : 
Nay.  as  though  earth  too  bounded  were, 
With  bulwarks  huge  thrust  back  the  sea, 
That  chafes  and  breaks  on  Baise. 


ODE  XVIII.     TO  A  MISER. 


133 


What  though  you  move  the  ancient  bound 
That  marks  your  humble  neighbour's  ground, 
And  avariciously  o'erleap 
The  limits  right  should  bid  you  keep  ? 
Where  lies  your  gain,  that  driven  from  home 
Both  wife  and  husband  forth  must  roam, 
Bearing  their  household  gods  close  press'd 
With  squalid  babes  upon  their  breast  ? 
Still  for  the  man  of  wealth,  'mid  all 
His  pomp  and  pride  of  place,  the  hall 
Of  sure-devouring  Orcus  waits 
With  its  inevitable  gates. 

Then  why  this  ceaseless,  vain  unrest  ? 
Earth  opens  her  impartial  breast 
To  prince  and  beggar  both  ;  nor  might 
Gold  e'er  tempt  Hell's  grim  satellite 
To  waft  astute  Prometheus  o'er 
From  yonder  ghastly  Stygian  shore. 
Proud  Tantalus  and  all  his  race 
He  curbs  within  that  rueful  place  ; 
The  toilworn  wretch,  who  cries  for  ease, 
Invoked  or  not,  he  hears  and  frees. 


34 


ODE  XIX.      TO  BACCHUS. 


ODE  XIX. 

TO  BACCHUS. 

Bacchus  I  Ve  seen,  (no  fable  is  mv  song !) 

Where  far  among  the  rocks  the  hills  are  rooted, 
His  strains  dictating  to  a  listening  throng 

Of  nymphs,  and  prick-eared  Satyrs  cloven-footed ! 

Evoe  !  The  dread  is  on  my  soul  even  now, 

Fill'd  with  the  god  my  breast  is  heaving  wildly! 

Evoe  !  O  spare,  Lyaeus,  spare  me,  thou, 

And  o'er  me  wield  thine  awful  thyrsus  mildly  ! 

Xow  may  I  dare  to  sing  of  Bacchants  bold, 
To  sing  of  wine  in  fountains  redly  rushing, 

Of  milky  streams,  and  honey's  liquid  gold 

From  hollow  trunks  in  woods  primeval  gushing. 

Now  may  I  chant  her  honours,  too,  thy  bride, 
Who  high  among  the  stars  is  throned  in  glory, 

The  halls  of  Pentheus  shattered  in  their  pride, 
And  of  Lycurgus  the  disastrous  story. 

Thee  own  as  lord  great  rivers,  barbarous  seas; 

Thou,  where  afar  the  mountain  peaks  are  shining, 
Flush'd  with  the  grape  dost  revel,  there  at  ease 

Thy  Bacchant's  locks  unharm'd  with  vipers  twin- 
ing. 

Thou,  when  the  banded  giants,  impious  crew  ! 

By  mountain  piled  on  mountain-top  were  scaling 
Thy  sire's  domains,  didst  hurl  back  Rhcecus.  through 

Thy  lion's  claws,  and  jawbone  fell  prevailing. 


ODE  XIX.     TO  BACCHUS. 


135 


Though  fitter  for  the  dance,  and  mirth,  and  jest, 
Than  for  the  battle's  deadly  shock  reputed, 

Thou  didst  approve  thyself,  o'er  all  the  rest 
Alike  for  peace  or  warfare  aptly  suited. 

Thee,  gloriously  bedeck'd  with  horn  of  gold, 

With  gently  wagging  tail  soothed  Cerberus  greet- 

And  lick'd  thy  limbs  and  feet  with  tongue  threefold, 
As  from  his  shady  realm  thy  steps  retreated. 


136 


ODE  XX.    TO  MAECENAS. 


ODE  XX. 

TO  MAECENAS. 

On  pinion  newly  plumed  and  strong 

1 11  cleave  the  liquid  air 
Predestinate,  true  child  of  song  ! 

A  double  form  to  wear. 
Earth  shall  not  keep  me  from  the  skies, 

I  '11  pierce  the  smoke  of  towns, 
And,  soaring  far  aloft,  despise 

Their  envy  and  their  frowns. 

Though  cradled  at  a  poor  man's  hearth, 

His  offspring,  I  shall  not 
Go  down  to  mix  with  common  earth 

Forgetting  and  forgot. 
No  !  I,  whom  thou,  Maecenas  dear, 

Dost  mark  with  thy  esteem, 
Shall  never  pine,  a  phantom  drear, 

By  sad  Cocytus'  stream. 

Even  now  I  feel  the  change  begin  ! 

And  see,  along  my  thighs 
It  creeps  and  creeps,  the  wrinkling  skin, 

In  sturdy  swan-like  guise. 
My  body  all  above  assumes 

The  bird,  and  white  as  snow 
Along  my  shoulders  airy  plumes 

Down  to  my  fingers  grow. 


ODE  XX.     TO  MAECENAS. 


137 


Now  swiftlier  borne  on  pinions  bold, 

Than  Icarus  of  yore, 
The  Bosphorus  shall  I  behold, 

And  hear  its  billows  roar  : 
Shall  o'er  Getulia's  whirling  sands, 

Canorous  bird,  career, 
And  view  Hyperborean  lands 

From  heaven's  own  azure  clear. 

My  fame  the  Colchian,  and  forlorn 

Gelonian  yet  shall  know, 
The  Dacian,  too,  who  seems  to  scorn, 

But  dreads  his  Marsic  foe. 
The  Spaniard  of  an  after  time 

My  minstrel  power  shall  own, 
And  I  be  hail'd  a  bard  sublime 

By  him  that  drinks  the  Rhone. 

Then  sing  no  dirge  above  my  bier, 

No  grief  be  idly  spent  ! 
Dishonour  lies  in  every  tear, 

Disgrace  in  each  lament. 
All  clamours  loud  of  woe  forbear  ! 

Respect  my  nobler  doom, 
And  those  superfluous  honours  spare. 

Which  load  a  vulgar  tomb  ! 


buck  hi. 


ODE  I. 


IN  PRAISE  OF  CONTENTMENT. 

Ye  rabble  rout,  avaunt ! 

Your  vulgar  din  give  o'er, 
Whilst  I,  tlie  Muses'  own  hierophant, 
To  the  pure  ears  of  youths  and  virgins  chant 

In  strains  unheard  before  ! 

Great  kings,  whose  frown  doth  make 

Their  crouching  vassals  quake, 
Themselves  must  own 
The  mastering  sway  of  Jove,  imperial  god, 

Who  from  the  crash  of  giants  overthrown 
Triumphant  honours  took,  and  by  his  nod 

Shakes  all  creation's  zone. 

Whate'er  our  rank  may  be, 
We  all  partake  one  common  destiny ! 

In  fair  expanse  of  soil, 
Teeming  with  rich  returns  of  wine  and  oil, 

His  neighbour  one  outvies; 

Another  claims  to  rise 

To  civic  dignities, 
Because  of  ancestry,  and  noble  birth, 
Or  fame,  or  proved  pre-eminence  of  worth, 

Or  troops  of  clients,  clamorous  in  his  cause  ; 
Still  Fate  doth  grimly  stand, 
And  with  impartial  hand 
The  lots  of  lofty  and  of  lowly  draws 

From  that  capacious  urn, 
Whence  every  name  that  lives  is  shaken  in  its  turn. 


142    ODE  I.     IN  PRAISE  OF  CONTENTMENT. 


To  him,  above  whose  guilty  head, 

Suspended  by  a  thread, 
The  naked  sword  is  hung  forevermore, 

Not  feasts  Sicilian  shall 

With  all  their  cates  recall 
That  zest  the  simplest  fare  could  once  inspire ; 
Nor  song  of  birds,  nor  music  of  the  lyre 

Shall  his  lost  sleep  restore : 

But  gentle  sleep  shuns  not 

The  rustic's  lowly  cot, 
Nor  mossy  bank,  o'ercanopied  with  trees, 
Nor  Tempe's  leafy  vale  stirr'd  by  the  western  breeze. 

The  man,  who  lives  content  with  whatsoe'er 

Sufficeth  for  his  needs, 
The  storm-toss'd  ocean  vexeth  not  with  care, 
Nor  the  fierce  tempest  which  Arcturus  breeds, 

When  in  the  sky  he  sets, 
Nor  that  which  Hoedus,  at  his  rise,  begets : 

Nor  will  he  grieve,  although 

His  vines  be  all  laid  low 
Beneath  the  driving  hail, 
Nor  though,  by  reason  of  the  drenching  rain, 

Or  heat,  that  shrivels  up  his  fields  like  fire, 

Or  fierce  extremities  of  winter's  ire, 
Blight  shall  o'erwhelm  his  fruit-trees  and  his  grain, 

And  all  his  farm's  delusive  promise  fail. 

The  fish  are  conscious  that  a  narrower  bound 

Is  drawn  the  seas  around 
By  masses  huge  huri'd  down  into  the  deep ; 

There  at  the  bidding  of  a  lord,  for  whom 

Not  all  the  land  he  owns  is  ample  room, 
Do  the  contractor  and  his  labourers  heap 
Vast  piles  of  stone,  the  ocean  back  to  sweep. 

But  let  him  climb  in  pride, 
That  lord  of  halls  unblest, 
Up  to  his  lordly  nest, 

Yet  ever  by  his  side 


ODE  1.     IN  PRAISE  OF  CONTENTMENT.  14S 

Climb  Terror  and  Unrest ; 
Within  the  brazen  galley's  sides 

Care,  ever  wakeful,  flits, 
And  at  his  back,  when  forth  in  state  he  rides, 

Her  withering  shadow  sits. 

If  thus  it  fare  with  all ; 
If  neither  marbles  from  the  Phrygian  mine 
Nor  star-bright  robes  of  purple  and  of  pall, 
Nor  the  Falernian  vine, 
Nor  costliest  balsams,  fetch'd  from  farthest  Ind, 
Can  soothe  the  restless  mind ; 
Why  should  I  choose 
To  rear  on  high,  as  modern  spendthrifts  use, 
A  lofty  hall,  might  be  the  home  for  kings, 
With  portals  vast,  for  Malice  to  abuse, 
Or  Envy  make  her  theme  to  point  a  tale ; 

Or  why  for  wealth,  which  new-born  trouble  brings, 
Exchange  my  Sabine  vale  ? 


144 


ODE  II.    TO  HIS  COMPANIONS. 


ODE  II. 

TO  HIS  COMPANIONS. 

In  war's  stern  school  our  youth  should  be 

SteePd  stoutly  to  endure 
The  ills  which  sharp  necessity 

Inflicts  upon  the  poor  ; 
To  make  the  Parthians  fly  in  fear 
Before  the  terrors  of  their  snea~ 

To  live  alert  at  danger's  call 

Encamp'd  on  heath  or  down ; 
Then  as  they  view  him  from  the  wall 

Of  their  beleaguer'd  town, 
With  sighs  the  warring  monarch's  dame 
And  virgin  daughter  shall  exclaim : 

"  O  grant,  ye  gods,  our  royal  lord, 

UnskilPd  in  war's  array, 
Provoke  not,  by  his  bootless  sword, 

Yon  lion  to  the  fray, 
Who  rushes  with  infuriate  roar 
Through  carnage,  dropping  gouts  of  gore  I n 

For  our  dear  native  land  to  die 

Is  glorious  and  sweet ; 
And  death  the  coward  slaves  that  fly 

Pursues  with  steps  as  fleet, 
Nor  spares  the  loins  and  backs  of  those 
Unwarlike  youths,  who  shun  their  foes. 


ODE  II.    TO  HIS  COMPANIONS. 


145 


Worth,  all-indifferent  to  the  spurns 

Of  vulgar  souls  profane, 
The  honours  wears,  it  proudly  earns, 

Unclouded  by  a  stain  ; 
Nor  grasps,  nor  lays  the  fasces  down, 
As  fickle  mobs  may  smile  or  frown. 

Worth,  which  heaven's  gate  to  those  unbars, 

Who  never  should  have  died, 
A  pathway  cleaves  among  the  stars, 

To  meaner  souls  denied, 
Soaring  in  scorn  far,  far  away 
From  vulgar  crowds  and  sordid  clay. 

For  faithful  silence  too  there  is 

A  guerdon  sure  :  whoe'er 
Has  once  divulged  the  mysteries 

Of  Ceres'  shrine,  shall  ne'er 
Partake  my  roof,  nor  yet  shall  he 
In  the  same  vessel  sail  with  me. 

For  oft  has  Jove,  when  slighted,  swept 

Away  with  sons  of  shame 
The  souls  which  have  their  whiteness  kept, 

Aud  punishment,  though  lame 
Of  foot,  has  rarely  fail'd  to  smite 
The  knave,  how  swift  soe'er  his  flight* 


7 


J 


140'    ODE  III.    THE  APOTHEOSIS  OF  ROMULUS. 


ODE  III. 

THE  APOTHEOSIS  OF  ROMULUS. 

He  that  is  just,  and  firm  of  will 

Doth  not  before  the  fury  quake 
Of  mobs  that  instigate  to  ill, 
Nor  hath  the  tyrant's  menace  skill 
His  fixed  resolve  to  shake ; 

Nor  Auster,  at  whose  wild  command 

The  Adriatic  billows  dash, 
Nor  Jove's  dread  thunder-launching  hand. 
Yea,  if  the  globe  should  fall,  he  '11  stand 

Serene  amidst  the  crash. 

By  constancy  like  this  sustain'd, 

Pollux  of  yore,  and  Hercules 
The  starry  eminences  gain'd, 
Where  Caesar,  with  lips  purple-stain'd, 

Quaffs  nectar,  stretch'd  at  ease. 

Thou,  by  this  power,  Sire  Bacchus,  led, 
To  bear  the  yoke  thy  pards  didst  school, 

Through  this  same  power  Quirinus  0f*d3 

By  Mars'  own  horses  charioted, 
The  Acherontine  pool. 

What  time  the  gods  to  council  came, 

And  Juno  spoke  with  gracious  tone, 
u  That  umpire  lewd  and  doom'd  to  shame, 
And  his  adulterous  foreign  dame 
Troy,  Troy  have  overthrown ; 


ODE  III.  THE  APOTHEOSIS  OF  ROMULUS. 


il  Troy  doom'd  to  perish  in  its  pride 
By  chaste  Minerva  and  by  me, 

Her  people,  and  their  guileful  guide, 

Since  false  Laomedon  denied 
The  gods  their  promised  fee. 

*'  The  Spartan  wanton's  shameless  guest 

No  longer  flaunts  in  brave  array, 
Nor  screened  by  Hector's  valiant  breast, 
Doth  Priam's  perjured  house  arrest 
My  Argives  in  the  fray. 

"  Protracted  by  our  feucls  no  more, 
The  war  is  quell'd.    So  I  abate 
Mine  anger,  and  to  Mars  restore 
Him,  whom  the  Trojan  priestess  bore, 
The  grandchild  of  my  hate. 

"  Him  will  I  suffer  to  attain 

These  realms  of  light,  these  blest  abodes, 
The  juice  of  nectar  pure  to  drain, 
And  be  enroll'd  amid  the  train 

Of  the  peace-breathing  gods. 

"  As  long  as  the  broad  rolling  sea 

Shall  roar  'twixt  Ilion  and  Rome, 
Where'er  these  wandering  exiles  be, 
There  let  them  rule,  be  happy,  free ; 
Whilst  Priam's,  Paris'  tomb 

"  Is  trodden  o'er  by  roving  kine, 

And  wild  beasts  there  securely  breed, 

The  Capitol  afar  may  shine, 

And  Rome,  proud  Rome  her  laws  assign 
Unto  the  vanquish'd  Mede. 

"  Yes,  let  her  spread  her  name  of  fear, 
To  farthest  shores  ;  where  central  waves 


ODE  HI.  THE  APOTHEOSIS  OE  ROMULUS. 

Part  Africa  from  Europe,  where 
Nile's  swelling  current  half  the  year 
The  plains  with  plenty  laves. 

"  Still  let  her  scorn  to  search  with  pain 
For  gold,  the  earth  hath  wisely  hid, 

Nor  strive  to  wrest  with  hands  profane 

To  mortal  use  and  mortal  gain 
What  is  to  man  forbid. 

'••  Let  earth's  remotest  regions  still 

Her  conquering  arms  to  glory  call. 
Where  scorching  suns  the  long  day  fill, 
Where  mists  and  snows  and  tempests  chill 
Hold  reckless  bacchanal. 

"  But  let  Quirinus'  sons  beware. 

For  they  are  doom'd  to  sure  annoy, 
Should  they  in  foolish  fondness  e'er 
Or  vaunting  pride  the  homes  repair 

Of  their  ancestral  Troy. 

"  In  evil  hour  should  Troy  once  more 

Arise,  it  shall  be  crush'd  anew, 
By  hosts  that  o'er  it  stride  in  gore, 
By  me  conducted,  as  of  yore. 

Jove's  spouse  and  sister  too. 

"  Thrice  rear  a  brazen  wall,  and  though 

Apollo's  self  his  aidance  lent. 
Thrice  shall  my  Argives  lay  it  low. 
Thrice  shall  the  captive  wife  in  woe 

Her  lord  and  babes  lament !  " 

But  whither  would'st  thou.  Muse  ?  Unmeet 

For  jocund  lyre  are  themes  like  these. 
Shalt  thou  the  talk  of  goals  repeat, 
Debasing  by  thy  strains  effete 
Such  Lofty  mysteries  ? 


ODE  IV.    TO  CALLIOPE. 


149 


ODE  IV. 

TO  CALLIOPE. 

O  Queen  Calliope,  from  heaven  descend, 

And  on  the  fife  prolong 

Thy  descant  sweet  and  strong, 
Or  with  the  lyre,  if  more  it  like  thee,  blend 

Thy  thrilling  voice  in  song  ! 

Hark  !  Or  is  this  but  frenzy's  pleasing  dream  ? 

Through  groves  I  seem  to  stray 

Of  consecrated  bay, 
Where  voices  mingle  with  the  babbling  stream, 

And  whispering  breezes  play. 

When  I  had  stray'd  a  child  on  Vultur's  steep, 

Beyond  Apulia's  bound, 

Which  was  my  native  ground, 
Was  I,  fatigued  with  play,  beneath  a  heap 

Of  fresh  leaves  sleeping  found, 

Strewn  by  the  storied  doves  ;  and  wonder  fell 

On  all,  their  nest  who  keep 

On  Acherontia's  steep, 
Or  in  Forentum's  low  rich  pastures  dwell, 

Or  Bantine  woodlands  deep  ; 

That  safe  from  bears  and  adders  in  such  place 

I  lay,  and  slumbering  smiled, 

O'erstrewn  with  myrtle  wild 
And  laurel,  by  the  gods'  peculiar  grace 

No  craven-hearted  child. 


150 


ODE  IV.     TO  CALLIOPE. 


Yours  am  I,  O  ye  Muses,  yours,  whene'er 

The  Sabine  peaks  I  scale  ; 

Or  cool  Praeneste's  vale, 
Or  Tibur's  slopes,  or  Baiaa's  waters  fair 

With  happy  heart  I  hail. 

Unto  your  roundels  and  your  fountains  vow'd, 

Philippi's  rout,  the  tree 

Of  doom  o'erwhelm'd  not  me, 
Nor  Palinurus  'mid  the  breakers  loud 

Of  the  Sicilian  sea. 

Unshrinkingly,  so  you  be  only  near, 

The  Bosphorus  I  '11  brave, 

Nor  quail,  howe'er  it  rave, 
Assyria's  burning  sands  I  '11  dare,  nor  fear 

In  them  to  find  a  grave. 

Shielded  by  you,  I  '11  visit  Britain's  shore 

To  strangers  ruthless  ever, 

Front  the  Gelonian  quiver, 
The  Concan,  too,  who  joys  in  horses'  gore, 

And  Scythia's  icy  river. 

Unto  great  Caesar's  self  ye  lend  new  life 

In  grot  Pierian,  when 

He  has  disposed  his  men 
Among  the  towns,  to  rest  from  battle-strife, 

And  yearns  for  peace  again. 

From  you  flow  gentle  counsels,  and  most  dear 

Such  counsels  are  to  you. 

We  know,  how  He  o'erthrew 
By  His  down-swooping  bolts  those  monsters  drear 

The  impious  Titan  crew; 

He  who  doth  earth's  unmoving  mass  control, 
The  tempest-shaken  main, 


ODE  IV.     TO  CALLIOPE. 


151 


Throng'd  towns,  the  realms  of  pain 
And  gloom,  and  doth  with  even  justice  sole 
O'er  gods  and  mortals  reign. 

When  he  beheld  them  first,  these  brothers  stark, 

Proud  in  their  strength  of  arm, 

Crowding  in  hideous  swarm 
To  pile  up  Pelion  on  Olympus  dark, 

Jove  shudder'd  with  alarm. 

But  what  could  stout  Typhoeus,  Mimas  do  ? 

Or  what,  for  all  his  might, 

Porphyrin's  threatening  height, 
What  Proetus,  or  Enceladus,  that  threw 

Uprooted  trees,  in  fight 

Against  great  Pallas'  ringing  aegis  dash'd, 

What  could  they  all  essay  ? 

Here,  eager  for  the  fray, 
Stood  Vulcan,  there  dame  Juno  unabash'd, 

And  he  who  ne'er  doth  lay 

His  bow  aside,  who  laves  his  locks  unshorn 

In  Castaly's  pure  dew, 

Divine  Apollo,  who 
Haunts  Lycia's  woodland  glades,  in  Delos  born, 

In  Patara  worshipp'd  too. 

Unreasoning  strength  by  its  own  weight  must  fall  - 

To  strength  with  wisdom  blent 

Force  by  the  gods  is  lent, 
Who  hold  in  scorn  that  strength,  which  is  on  all 

That 's  impious  intent. 

See  hundred-handed  Gyges  helpless  lie, 

To  make  my  maxim  good, 

Orion  too,  that  would 
Lay  ruffian  hands  on  chaste  Diana,  by 

Her  virgin  shafts  subdued. 


152  ODE  IV.     TO  CALLIOPE. 

Upheaved  above  tfie  monsters  she  "begot, 
Earth  wails  her  children  whirl'd 
To  Orcus'  lurid  world, 

By  vengeful  holts,  and  the  swift  fire  hath  not 
Pierced  iEtna  o'er  it  hurl'd. 

Nor  does  the  vulture  e'er,  sin's  warder  grim, 

Lewd  Tityus'  liver  quit, 

But  o'er  him  still  doth  sit ; 
Pirithous,  too,  lies  fetter'd,  limb  to  limb 

By  chains  three  hundred  knit. 


ODE  V.     THE  PKAISE  OF  VALOUR.  353 


ODE  V. 

THE  PRAISE  OF  VALOUR. 

When  through  the  heavens  his  thunders  blare, 
We  think  that  Jove  is  monarch  there, 
So  now  Augustus  too  shall  be 
Esteem'd  a  present  deity, 
Since  Britons  he  and  Persians  dread 
Hath  to  his  empire  subjected. 

Has  any  legionary,  who 
His  falchion  under  Crassus  drew, 
A  bride  barbarian  stoop'd  to  wed, 
And  life  with  her  ignobly  led  ? 
And  can  there  be  the  man  so  base 
Of  Marsian  or  Apulian  race, 
(O,  on  the  Senate  be  the  blame, 
O,  on  our  tainted  morals  shame ! ) 
As  with  his  spouse's  sire,  his  foe, 
And  in  a  foeman's  camp,  to  grow 
To  age  beneath  some  Median  King, 
The  Shields  no  more  remembering, 
Nor  yet  the  Roman  dress  or  name. 
Nor  Aresta's  never-dying  flame, 
Whilst  still  unscathed  stands  Jove,  and  Kome, 
His  city,  and  his  only  home  ? 

Ah,  well  he  fearyd  such  shame  for  us, 
The  brave,  far-seeing  Regulus, 
When  he  the  vile  conditions  spurn'd, 
That  might  to  precedent  be  turn'd, 
7* 


154        ODE  V.     THE  PRAISE  OF  VALOUR. 


With  ruin  and  disaster  fraught 
To  after  times,  should  they  be  taught 
Another  creed  than  this.  —  "  They  die 
Unwept,  who  brook  captivity  !  " 

"  I  've  seen,"  he  cried,  "  our  standards  hung 
In  Punic  fanes,  our  weapons  wrung 
From  Roman  hands  without  a  blow ; 
Our  citizens.  I 've  seen  them  go, 
With  arms  behind  their  free  backs  tied, 
Gates  I  have  seen  flung  open  wide, 
Ay,  Roman  troops  I've  seen,  disgraced 
To  till  the  plains  they  had  laid  waste  ! 

Will  he  return  more  brave  and  bold, 
The  soldier  you  redeem  with  gold  ? 
You  add  but  loss  unto  disgrace. 
Its  native  whiteness  once  efface 
With  curious  dyes ;  you  can  no  more 
That  whiteness  to  the  wool  restore ; 
Nor  is  true  valour,  once  debased. 
In  souls  corrupt  to  be  replaced ! 

"  If  from  the  tangled  meshes  freed, 
The  stag  will  battle,  then  indeed 
May  he  conspicuous  valour  show, 
Who  trusted  the  perfidious  foe.  — 
He  smite  upon  some  future  field 
The  Carthaginian,  who  could  yield 
In  fear  of  death  his  arms  to  be 
Bound  up  with  thongs  submissively  ! 
Content  to  draw  his  caitiff  breath, 
Xor  feel  such  life  is  worse  than  death ! 
O  shame  !  O  mighty  Carthage,  thou 
On  Rome's  fallen  glories  towerest  now ! " 

From  his  chaste  wife's  embrace,  they  say, 
And  babes,  he  tore  himself  away, 


ODE  V.     THE  PRAISE  OF  VALOUR.  155 

As  he  had  forfeited  the  right 

To  clasp  them  as  a  freeman  might ; 

Then  sternly  on  the  ground  he  bent 

His  manly  brow ;  and  so  he  lent 

Decision  to  the  senate's  voice, 

That  paused  and  waver'd  in  its  choice, 

And  forth  the  noble  exile  strode, 

Whilst  friends  in  anguish  lined  the  road. 

Noble  indeed  !  for,  though  he  knew 
What  tortures  that  barbarian  crew 
Had  ripe  for  him,  he  waved  aside 
The  kin  that  did  his  purpose  chide, 
The  thronging  crowds,  that  strove  to  stay 
His  passage,  with  an  air  as  gay, 
As  though  at  close  of  some  decree 
Upon  a  client's  lawsuit  he 
Its  dreary  coil  were  leaving  there, 
To  green  Venafrum  to  repair, 
Or  to  Tarentum's  breezy  shore, 
Where  Spartans  built  their  town  of  yore. 


156 


ODE  VI.     TO  THE  ROMANS. 


ODE  VI. 

TO  THE  ROMANS. 

Ye  Romans,  ye,  though  guiltless  shall 
Dread  expiation  make  for  all 

The  laws  your  sires  have  broke, 
Till  ye  repair  with  loving  pains 
The  gods'  dilapidated  fanes, 

Their  statues  grimed  with  smoke  ! 

Ye  rule  the  world,  because  that  ye 
Confess  the  gods'  supremacy, 

Hence  all  your  grandeur  grows ! 
The  gods,  in  vengeance  for  neglect, 
Hesperia's  wretched  land  have  wreck'd 

Beneath  unnumbered  woes. 

Twice  have  Monasses,  and  the  hordes 
Of  Pacorus  withstood  the  swords 

Of  our  ill-omen'd  host ; 
No  more  in  meagre  torques  equipp'd, 
But  deck'd  with  spoils  from  Romans  stripp'd, 

They  of  our  ruin  boast. 

Dacian  and  Ethiop  have  well-nigh 
Undone  our  Rome  distracted  by 

Intestine  feud  and  fray ; 
This  by  his  fleet  inspiring  fear, 
That  by  his  shafts,  which  far  and  near 

Spread  havoc  and  dismay. 


ODE  VI.     TO  THE  ROMANS. 


157 


Our  times,  in  sin  prolific,  first 

The  marriage-bed  with  taint  have  cursed, 

And  family  and  home  ; 
This  is  the  fountain  head  of  all 
The  sorrows  and  the  ills  that  fall 

On  Romans  and  on  Rome. 

The  ripening  virgin  joys  to  learn 
In  the  Ionic  dance  to  turn 

And  bend  with  plastic  limb ; 
Still  but  a  child,  with  evil  gleams 
Incestuous  love's  unhallowed  dreams 

Before  her  fancy  swim. 

Straight,  in  her  husband's  wassail  hours, 
She  seeks  more  youthful  paramours, 

And  little  recks,  on  whom 
She  may  her  lawless  joys  bestow 
By  stealth,  when  all  the  lamps  burn  low, 

And  darkness  shrouds  the  room. 

Yea,  she  will  on  a  summons  fly, 
Nor  is  her  spouse  unconscious  why, 

To  some  rich  broker's  arms, 
Or  some  sea-captain's  fresh  from  Spain, 
With  wealth  to  buy  her  shame,  and  gain 

Her  mercenary  charms. 

They  did  not  spring  from  sires  like  these, 
The  noble  youth,  who  dyed  the  seas 

With  Carthaginian  gore, 
Who  great  Antiochus  o'ercame, 
And  Pyrrhus,  and  the  dreaded  name 

Of  Hannibal  of  yore  ; 

But  they,  of  rustic  warriors  wight 
The  manly  offspring,  learned  to  smite 
The  soil  with  Sabine  spade, 


ODE  VI.     TO  THE  ROMANS. 


And  fagots  they  had  cut  to  bear 
Home  from  the  forest,  whensoe'er 
An  austere  mother  bade ; 

What  time  the  sun  began  to  change 
The  shadows  through  the  mountain  range, 

And  took  the  yoke  away 
From  the  o'erwearied  oxen,  and 
His  parting  car  proclaimed  at  hand 

The  kindliest  hour  of  day. 

How  Time  doth  in  its  flight  debase 
Whate'er  it  finds  ?    Our  fathers'  race, 

More  deeply  versed  in  ill 
Than  were  their  sires,  hath  borne  us  yet 
More  wicked,  duly  to  beget 

A  race  more  vicious  still. 


ODE  VII.     TO  ASTEIilE.  159 


ODE  VII. 

TO  ASTEKIE. 

Why  weep,  Asterie,  for  the  youth, 
That  soul  of  constancy  and  truth, 

Whom  from  Bithynia's  shore 
Rich  with  its  wares,  with  gentle  wing 
The  west-winds  shall  in  early  spring 

To  thy  embrace  restore  ? 

Driven  by  the  southern  gales,  when  high 
Mad  Capra's  star  ascends  the  sky, 

To  Oricum,  he  keeps 
Sad  vigils  through  the  freezing  nights, 
And,  thinking  of  his  lost  delights 

With  thee,  thy  Gyges  weeps. 

Yet  in  a  thousand  artful  ways 
His  hostess'  messenger  essays 

To  tempt  him,  urging  how 
Chloe  —  for  such  her  name  —  is  doom'd 
By  fires  like  thine  to  be  consumed, 

And  sigh  as  deep  as  thou  ; 

Narrating,  how  by  slanders  vile 
A  woman's  falsehood  did  beguile 

The  credulous  Prcetus  on, 
To  hurry  with  untimely  haste 
Into  the  toils  of  death  the  chaste, 

Too  chaste  Bellerophon. 


160  ODE  TIT.     TO  ASTERIE. 


Of  Peleiis  then  he  tells,  who  thus 
Was  nigh  eonsign'd  to  Tartarus, 

Because  his  coldness  shamed 
Magnessia's  queen  Hippolyte, 
And  hints  at  stories  craftily 

To  sap  his  virtue  framed. 

In  vain  !    For  he,  untouched  as  yet, 
Is  deafer  than  the  rocks  that  fret 

The  Icarian  waves  ;  —  but  thou, 
Keep  watch  upon  thy  fancy  too, 
Nor  to  Enipeus  there  undue 

Attractiveness  allow  ! 

Though  no  one  on  the  Martian  Mead 
Can  turn  and  wind  a  mettled  steed 

So  skilfully  as  he. 
Nor  any  breast  the  Tuscan  tide, 
And  dash  its  tawny  waves  aside 

With  such  celerity. 

At  nightfall  shut  your  doors,  nor  then 
Look  down  into  the  street  again, 

When  quavering  fifes  complain ; 
And  though  he  call  thee,  as  he  will, 
Unjust,  unkind,  unfeeling,  still 

Inflexible  remain ! 


ODE  VIII.     TO  MAECENAS. 


161 


ODE  VIII. 

TO  MAECENAS. 

Why  a  bachelor  such  as  myself  should  disport 
On  the  Kalends  of  March,  what  these  garlands 
import, 

What  the  censer  with  incense  fill'd  full,  you  inquire, 
And  the  green  turf,  with  charcoal  laid  ready  to  fire  ? 
If  the  cause  of  all  these  preparations  you  seek, 
You,  versed  in  the  lore  both  of  Latin  and  Greek, 
It  is  this !    That  I  vow'd,  when  nigh  kill'd  by  the 
blow 

Of  yon  tree,  unto  Liber  a  goat  white  as  snow, 
With  festival  rites ;  and  the  circling  year  now 
Has  brought  round  the  day  that  I  offer 'd  my  vow. 
'  T  is  a  day,  which  the  well-rosin'd  cork  shall  unyoke 
Of  the  jar,  that  was  set  to  be  fined  in  the  smoke, 
When  Tullius  was  Consul.    In  cups  without  end 
Then  pledge  me,  Maecenas,  for  safe  is  thy  friend ; 
Let  the  dawn  find  our  lamps  still  ablaze,  and  afar 
From  our  revel  be  anger,  and  clamour  and  jar ! 
Your  cares  for  the  weal  of  the  city  dismiss, 
And  why  should  you  not,  at  a  season  like  this  ? 
There  is  Dacian  Cotiso's  army  is  shent, 
And  the  Median  by  discords  intestine  is  rent ; 
The  vanquish'd  Cantabrian  yonder  in  Spain 
Submits  after  long  years  of  strife  to  our  chain, 
And  the  Scythians,  unbending  their  bows  in  despair, 
To  fly  from  the  plains  they  had  ravaged  prepare. 
Then  a  respite  from  public  anxieties  steal, 
Feel  the  easy  indifference  private  men  feel, 
Snatch  gayly  the  joys  which  the  moment  shall  bring, 
And  away  every  care  and  perplexity  fling. 

K 


1G2 


ODE  IX.     THE  RECONCILIATION. 


ODE  IX. 

THE  RECONCILIATION. 

HORACE. 

Whilst  thou  wert  ever  good  and  kind, 

And  I,  and  I  alone  might  lie 
Upon  thy  snowy  breast  reclined, 

Not  Persia's  king  so  blest  as  I. 

LTD  I  A. 

Whilst  I  to  thee  was  all  in  all, 
]Sor  Chloe  might  with  Lydia  vie, 

Renown'd  in  ode  or  madrigal, 
Sot  Roman  Ilia  famed  as  L 

HORACE. 

I  now  am  Thraeian  Chloe's  slave, 

With  hand  and  voice  that  charms  the  air, 

For  whom  ev'n  death  itself  I'd  brave, 
So  fate  the  darling  girl  would  spare ! 

LYDIA. 

I  dote  on  Calais  —  and  1 

Am  all  his  passion,  all  his  care, 

For  whom  a  double  death  I 'd  die, 
So  fate  the  darling  boy  would  spare. 


ODE  IX.     THE  RECONCILIATION. 


163 


HORACE. 

What,  if  our  ancient  love  return, 
And  bind  us  closer  in  its  chain, 

If  I  the  far-hair'd  Chloe  spurn, 

And  welcome  Lydia's  charms  again  ? 

LYDIA. 

Though  lovelier  than  yon  star  is  he, 

Thou  fickle  as  an  April  sky, 
More  churlish  too  than  Atlria's  sea, 

With  thee  I 'd  live,  with  thee  I 'd  die ! 


164 


ODE  X.     TO  LYCE. 


ODE  X. 

TO  LYCL 

Though  your  drink  were  the  Tanais,  chillest  of 
rivers, 

And  your  lot  with  some  conjugal  savage  were 
cast, 

You  should  pity,  sweet  Lyce,  the  poor  soul  that 
shivers 

Out  here  at  your  door  in  the  merciless  blast. 

Only  hark  how  the  doorway  goes  straining  and 
creaking, 

And  the  piercing  wind  pipes  through  the  trees 
that  surround 
The  court  of  your  villa,  while  black  frost  is  streak- 

With  ice  the  crisp  snow  that  lies  thick  on  the 
ground  ! 

In  your  pride  —  Venus  hates  it  —  no  longer  en- 
velop ye, 

Or  haply  you  '11  find  yourself  laid  on  the  shelf; 
You  never  were  made  for  a  prudish  Penelope, 
'T  is  not  in  the  blood  of  your  sires  or  yourself. 

Though  nor  gifts  nor  entreaties  can  win  a  soft  an- 
swer, 

Nor  the  violet  pale  of  my  love-ravaged  cheek, 


ODE  X.     TO  LYCE.  165 

Though  your  husband  be  false  with  a  Greek  ballet- 
dancer, 

And  you  still  are  true,  and  forgiving,  and  meek  ; 

Ladies  should  n't  as  snakes  of  the  jungle  be  cruel, 
Nor  at  heart  be  as  tough  as  the  oak's  toughest 
bole; 

And  I  can't  stand  out  here  every  evening,  my  jewel, 
Singing,  drench'd  to  the  skin,  nor  I  won't,  on  my 
soul! 


1G6 


ODE  XL     TO  LYDE. 


ODE  XI. 

TO  LYDE. 

O  Hermes,  taught  by  whom  Amphion's  throat 
Charm'd  into  motion  stones  and  senseless  things 

And  thou  sweet  shell,  that  dost  with  dulcet  note 
Make  music  from  thy  seven  melodious  strings, 

Thou  once  nor  sweet,  nor  voluble,  but  now 
In  fane,  or  rich  man's  feast,  a  welcome  guest, 

Give  to  my  song  the  charmer's  might,  to  bow 
Lyde's  unyielding  ear,  and  unrelenting  breast ! 

Lyde,  who,  like  a  filly  full  of  play 

That  frisks  and  gambols  o'er  the  meadows  wide, 
And  fears  e'en  to  be  touch'd,  will  never  stay 

To  list  the  burning  tale  that  woos  her  for  a  bride. 

Thou  listening  woods  canst  lead,  and  tigers  fell, 
And  stay  the  rapid  rivers  in  their  course ; 

Yea,  the  grim  janitor  of  ghastly  hell 

Crouch'd  on  his  post,  subdued  by  thy  persuasive 
force. 

Though  countless  serpents  —  sentinels  full  dread  — 
The  ridges  of  his  fateful  brows  empale, 

And,  loathly  steaming,  from  his  triple  head 

Swelters  black  gore,  and  poisonous  blasts  exhale. 


ODE  XI.     TO  LYDE. 


167 


Ev'n  Tityus  and  Ixion  grimly  smiled 

Through  all  their  anguish,  and  awhile  hung  dry 
The  toiling  urn,  whilst  the  sweet  strain  beguiled 

The  Danaids,  that  stood  in  soothed  oblivion  by. 

In  Lyde's  ear  reverberate  their  guilt, 

And  its  dread  punishment,  to  draw  forever 

A  jar  of  water  that  is  ever  spilt, 

Through  the  pierced  bottom  lost  in  the  sad-flow- 
ing river. 

Show  her  the  vengeance  sure,  howe'er  delayed, 
Which  even  in  Orcus  crimes  like  theirs  must 

Those  impious  girls,  stain'd  with  guilt's  blackest 
shade, 

Those  impious  girls,  who  slew  their  lords  with 

savage  steel  ! 

One  only,  worthy  of  the  bridal  bed, 

Of  all  the  train,  was  to  her  perjured  sire 

Magnificently  false,  and  fame  shall  spread 

Her  praise  through  endless  time,  link'd  to  the  liv- 
ing lyre. 

"  Rise,  rise  ! "  Thus  to  her  youthful  mate  she  spoke, 
"  Lest  thou  from  hands,  whose  guilt  is  little  fear'd, 

Receive  a  sleep,  that  never  shall  be  broke  ! 

Fly  from  my  father  false  and  ruthless  sisters 
weird  ! 

"  Who  now,  like  lions  ravening  o'er  their  prey, 
Butcher  their  wedded  lords,  alas,  alas  ! 

I  strike  thee  not  —  I,  gentler-soul'd  than  they, 
Nor  keep  thee  prison'd  here,  but  bid  thee  freely 
pass. 

"  My  sire  may  load  my  arms  with  cruel  chains, 
Because  in  pity  I  my  lo.d  did  spare, 


168 


ODE  XI.     TO  LYDE. 


Or  o'er  the  seas  to  far  Numidia's  plains 
May  banish  me,  yet  all  for  thee  I  '11  gladly  bear 

"  Go !  speed  thee  hence,  unfurl  thy  swelling  sail, 
While  Venus  favours,  and  this  midnight  gloom ! 

The  gods  defend  thy  steps !  And  let  the  tale 
Of  what  I  loved  and  lost  be  graven  upon  thj 
tomb!" 


ODE  XII.     TO  NEOBULE. 


169 


ODE  XII. 

TO  NEOBULE. 

Maids  ne'er  to  their  heart's  love, 

Poor  souls,  may  give  play, 
Nor  wash  in  the  wine-cup 

Their  troubles  away ; 
More  dead  than  alive, 

They  are  haunted  by  fear 
To  be  scourged  by  the  tongue 

Of  a  guardian  austere. 

Cytherea's  wing'd  urchin 

From  thee  doth  beguile 
Thy  work-box,  and  Hebrus 

Of  Lipara's  isle 
From  thy  broidery  weans  thee, 

And  all  the  hard  lore, 
Which  thou,  Neobule, 

Didst  toil  at  of  yore. 

A  handsome  young  fellow 

Is  he,  when  he  laves 
His  balm-dropping  shoulders 

In  Tiber's  dun  waves ; 
Bellerophon's  self 

Not  so  well  graced  a  steed, 
He  is  peerless  in  boxing, 

A  race-horse  in  speed ; 
8 


no 


ODE  XII.     TO  NEOBULE. 


Expert  too  in  striking 

The  stag  with  his  spear, 
When  the  herd  o'er  the  champaign 

Fly  panting  in  fear  ; 
Nor  less  ready  handed 

The  boar  to  surprise, 
Where  deep  in  the  shade 

Of  the  covert  it  lieg. 


ODE  XIII,  TO  THE  BANDUSIAN  FOUNTAIN.  171 


ODE  XIII. 

TO  THE  BANDUSIAN  FOUNTAIN. 

O  fountain  of  Bandusia, 
Sparkling  brighter  in  thy  play, 
Far  than  crystal,  thou  of  wine 
Worthy  art  and  fragrant  twine 
Of  fairest  flowers  !    To-morrow  thou 
A  kid  shalt  have,  whose  swelling  brow, 
And  horns  just  budding  into  life, 
Give  promise  both  of  love  and  strife. 
Yain  promise  all !    For  in  the  spring 
And  glory  of  his  wantoning, 
His  blood  shall  stain  thy  waters  cool 
With  many  a  deep-ensanguined  pool. 

Thee  the  fiery  star,  the  hot 

Breath  of  noonday  toucheth  not. 

Thou  a  grateful  cool  dost  yield 

To  the  flocks  that  range  afield, 

And  breathest  freshness  from  thy  stream 

To  the  labour-wearied  team. 

Thou,  too,  shalt  be  one  erelong 

Of  the  fountains  famed  in  song, 

When  I  sing  the  ilex  bending 

O'er  thy  mosses,  whence  descending 

Thy  delicious  waters  bound, 

Prattling  to  the  rocks  around 


ODE  XIV.     TO  THE  ROMANS. 


ODE  XIV. 

TO  THE  ROMANS. 

Cesar,  O  people,  who  of  late, 
Like  Hercules  defying  fate, 
Was  said  the  laurel  to  have  sought 
Which  only  may  by  death  be  bought, 
To  his  home-gods  returns  again, 
Victorious,  from  the  shores  of  Spain ! 

To  the  just  gods  to  pay  their  rites, 
Now  let  the  matron,  who  delights 
In  him  her  peerless  lord,  repair, 
And  our  great  leader's  sister  fair ; 
And  with  them  go  the  mothers  chaste, 
Their  brows  with  suppliant  fillets  graced, 
Of  our  fresh  maids,  and  of  the  brave 
Young  men,  who  late  have  'scaped  the  grave ! 
And  0  ye  boys,  and  new-made  brides, 
Hush  every  word  that  ill  betides ! 

From  me  this  truly  festal  day 
Shall  drive  each  cloud  of  care  away ; 
Nor  shall  I  draw  in  fear  my  breath 
For  civil  broil  or  bloody  death, 
While  Cassar  sway  o'er  earth  shall  bear. 
Away,  then,  boy,  bring  chaplets  fair, 
Bring  unguents,  and  with  these  a  jar, 
That  recollects  the  Marsian  war, 
If  aught  that  held  the  juice  of  grape 
Might  roving  Spartacus  escape  ! 


ODE  XIV.     TO  THE  ROMANS. 


173 


Nesera,  too,  that  singer  rare, 
Go,  bid  her  quickly  bind  her  hair, 
Her  myrrhy  hair,  in  simple  knot, 
And  haste  to  join  me  on  the  spot ! 
But  if  her  porter  say  thee  nay, 
The  hateful  churl !  then  come  away. 
Time-silvered  locks  the  passions  school, 
And  make  the  testiest  brawler  cool ; 
I  had  not  brook'd  his  saucy  prate, 
When  young,  in  Plancus'  consulate. 


174 


ODE  XV.     TO  CHLORIS. 


ODE  XV. 

TO  CHLORIS. 

Quit,  quit,  't  is  more  than  time,  thou  wife 

Of  Tbycus  the  pauper, 
Thy  horribly  abandoned  life, 

And  courses  most  improper  ! 

Ripe  for  the  grave,  'mongst  girls  no  more 

Attempt  to  sport  thy  paces, 
Nor  fling  thy  hideous  shadow  o'er 

Their  pure  and  starry  graces. 

What  charmingly  on  Pholoe  sits 

In  Chloris  must  repel  us : 
Thy  daughter  better  it  befits 

To  hunt  up  the  young  fellows. 

Like  Maenad,  by  the  timbrel  made 

Of  all  restraint  oblivious, 
She  by  her  love  for  Nothus  sway'd 

Like  she-goat  frisks  lascivious. 

To  spin  Luceria's  fleeces  suits 
A  crone  like  thee ;  no  patience 

Can  brook  thy  roses,  and  thy  lutes^ 
And  pottle-deep  potations. 


ODE  XVI.     TO  MAECENAS. 


175 


ODE  XVI. 

to  mj:cenas. 

Well  the  tower  of  brass,  the  massive  doors, 

the  watch-dogs'  dismal  bay 
Had  from  midnight  wooers  guarded  Danae,  where 

immured  she  lay ; 
There  she  might  have  pined  a  virgin,  prison'd  by 

the  timorous  craft 
Of  her  fated  sire  Acrisius,  had  not  Jove  and  Yenus 

laugh'd 

At  his  terrors ;  for  no  sooner  changed  the  god  to 

gold,  than  he 
Instantly  unto  the  maiden  access  found  secure  and 

free. 

Through  close  lines  on  lines  of  sentries  gold  to 
cleave  its  way  delights, 

Stronger  than  the  crashing  lightning  through  op- 
posing rocks  it  smites ; 

'T  was  through  vile  desire  of  lucre,  as  the  storied 
legends  tell, 

That  the  house  of  Argos'  augur  whelm'd  in  death 

and  ruin  fell ; 
'T  was  by  bribes  the  Macedonian  city's  gates  could 

open  fling, 

*T  was  by  bribes  that  he  subverted  many  a  dreaded 
rival  king ; 


176  ODE  XVI.    TO  MAECENAS. 

Nay,  there  lies  such  fascination  in  the  gleam  of  gold 
to  some, 

That  our  bluffest  navy-captains  to  its  witchery  suc- 
cumb. 

But  as  wealth  into  our  coffers  flows  in  still  increas- 
ing store, 

So,  too,  still  our  care  increases,  and  the  hunger  still 
for  more, 

Therefore,  O  Maecenas,  glory  of  the  knights,  with 

righteous  dread, 
Have  I  ever  shrunk  from  lifting  too  conspicuously 

my  head. 

Yes,  the  more  a  man,  believe  me,  shall  unto  himself 
deny, 

So  to  him  shall  the  Immortals  bounteously  the  more 
supply. 

From  the  ranks  of  wealth  deserting,  I,  of  all  their 

trappings  bare, 
To  the  camp  of  those  who  covet  naught  that  pelf 

can  bring  repair, 
More  illustrious  as  the  master  of  my  poor  despised 

hoard, 

Than  if  I  should  be  reputed  in  my  garners  to  have 
stored 

All  the  fruits  of  all  the  labors  of  the  stout  Apulian 
boor, 

Lord  belike  of  wealth  unbounded,  yet  as  veriest 
beggar  poor. 

In  my  crystal  stream,  my  woodland,  though  its 
acres  are  but  few, 
And  the  trust  that  I  shall  gather  home  my  crops  in 
season  due, 

Lies  a  joy,  which  he  may  never  grasp,  who  rules  in 

gorgeous  state 
Fertile  Africa's  dominions.    Happier,  happier  far 

my  fate ! 


ODE  XVI.     TO  MAECENAS.  177 

Though  for  me  no  bees  Calabrian  store  their  honey, 

nor  doth  wine 
Sickening  in  the  Laestrygonian  amphora  for  me 

refine ; 

Though  for  me  no  flocks  unnumber'd,  browsing 

Gallia's  pastures  fair, 
Pant  beneath  their  swelling  fleeces,  I  at  least  am 

free  from  care ; 
Haggard  want  with  direful  clamour  ravins  never  at 

my  door, 

Nor  wouldst  thou,  if  more  I  wanted,  O  my  friend, 

deny  me  more. 
Appetites  subdued  will  make  me  richer  with  my 

scanty  gains, 

Than  the  realms  of  Alyattes  wedded  to  Mygdonia's 
plains. 

Much  will  evermore  be  wanting  unto  those  who 

much  demand ; 
Blest,  whom  Jove  with  what  sufliceth  dowers,  but 

dowers  with  sparing  hand. 


8  * 


ODE  XVII.     TO  JELIU8  LAM  J  A. 


ODE  XYII. 

TO  MELIUS  LAMIA. 

JElius,  sprung  from  Lamos  old, 

That  mighty  long,  who  first,  we  're  told 

Ruled  fbrted  Formiae, 
And  all  the  land  on  either  hand, 
Where  Liris  by  Marica's  strand 

Goes  rippling  to  the  sea  ; 

Unless  yon  old  soothsaying  crow 
Deceive  me,  from  the  East  shall  blow 

To-morrow  such  a  blast, 
As  will  with  leaves  the  forest  strew, 
And  heaps  of  useless  algae  too 

Upon  the  sea-beaeh  east. 

Dry  fagots,  then,  house  while  you  may; 
Give  all  your  household  holiday 

To-morrow,  and  with  wine 
Your  spirits  cheer,  be  blithe  and  bold, 
And  on  a  pigling  two  moons  old 

Most  delicately  dine  ! 


ODE  XVIII.     TO  FAUNUS. 


179 


ODE  XVIII. 

TO  FAUNUS. 

Faunus,  lover  of  the  sliy 
Nymphs  who  at  thy  coming  fly, 
Lightly  o'er  my  borders  tread, 
And  my  fields  in  sunshine  spread, 
And,  departing,  leave  me  none 
Of  my  yeanling  flock  undone  ! 
So  each  closing  year  shall  see 
A  kidling  sacrificed  to  thee  ; 
So  shall  bounteous  bowls  of  wine, 
Venus'  comrades  boon,  be  thine ; 
So  shall  perfumes  manifold 
Smoke  around  thine  altar  old  ! 

When  December's  Nones  come  round  . 
Then  the  cattle  all  do  bound 
O'er  the  grassy  plains  in  play ; 
The  village,  too,  makes  holiday, 
With  the  steer  from  labour  free'd 
Sporting  blithely  through  the  mead. 
'Mongst  the  lambs,  that  fear  him  not, 
Roves  the  wolf;  each  sylvan  spot 
Showers  its  woodland  leaves  for  thee, 
And  the  delver,  mad  with  glee, 
Joys  with  quick-redoubling  feet 
The  detested  ground  to  beat. 


180 


ODE  XIX.     TO  TELEPHUS. 


ODE  XIX. 

TO  TELEPHUS. 

How  long  after  Inachus,  Codrus  bore  sway  there 
In  Greece,  for  whose  sake  he  so  gallantly  fell, 

Every  scion  of  iEaeus'  race,  every  fray  there 
Beneath  holy  Troy's  leaguer 'd  walls  you  can  tell. 

But  the  price  one  may  purchase  choice  old  Chian 
wine  at, 

Or  who  has  good  baths,  that  you  never  have  told, 
Nor  where  we  shall  find  pleasant  chambers  to  dine 
at, 

And  when  be  secure  from  Pelignian  cold. 

To  the  new  moon  a  cup,  boy,  to  midnight  another, 

And  quickly,  —  to  augur  Muraena  a  third  ! 
To  each  bowl  give  three  measures,  or  nine,  —  one 
or  t'  other 

Will  do,  less  or  more  would  be  wrong  and  absurd  ! 

The  bard,  who  is  vow'd  to  the  odd-numbered  Muses, 
For  bumpers  thrice  three  in  his  transport  will 
call ; 

But  the  Grace  with  her  loose-kirtled  sisters  refuses 
To  grant  more  than  three  in  her  horror  of  brawl. 

For  me,  I  delight  to  go  mad  for  a  season  ! 
Why  ceases  the  shrill  Berecynthian  flute 


ODE  XIX.     TO  TELEPHUS. 


181 


To  pour  its  bewailings  ?  And  what  is  the  reason, 
The  lyre  and  the  flageolet  yonder  hang  mute  ? 

[  hate  niggard  hands ;  then  strew  freely  the  roses  ! 

Let  envious  Lycus  there  hear  the  mad  din, 
And  she,  our  fair  neighbour,  who  with  him  reposes  : 

That  she  with  old  Lycus  should  live  is  a  sin. 

Thee,  Telephus,  thee,  with  thy  thick-flowing  tresses 
All  radiant  as  Hesper  at  fall  of  the  day, 

Sweet  Rhode  is  longing  to  load  with  caresses, 
Whilst  I  waste  for  Glycera  slowly  away ! 


182 


ODE  XX.     TO  PYKRHUS. 


ODE  XX. 

TO  PYRRHUS. 

What  man  is  he  so  mad,  as  dare 

From  Moorish  lioness  to  tear 

Her  cubs  ?  My  Pyrrhus,  dost  not  see, 

How  perilous  the  task  must  be  ? 

Soon,  soon  thy  heart  will  fail,  and  thou 

Wilt  shun  the  strife  awaits  thee  now ; 

When  through  the  youths,  that  throng  to  stay 

Her  course,  she  fiercely  makes  her  way, 

To  find  Nearchus,  peerless  youth, 

O  rare  the  struggle,  small  the  ruth, 

Till  one  or  other  yields,  and  he 

Her  prize,  or  thine,  at  last  shall  be  ! 

Meanwhile,  whilst  for  the  frenzied  fair 
Thou  dost  thy  deadliest  shafts  prepare, 
And  she  whets  her  appalling  teeth, 
The  umpire  of  the  fray  beneath 
His  heel,  so  gossip  says,  will  crush 
The  palm,  and  spread,  to  meet  the  rush 
Of  breezes  cool,  the  odorous  hair 
That  clusters  round  his  shoulders  fair, 
Like  Nireus,  he  or  whom  of  yore 
Jove's  bird  from  watery  Ida  bore  ! 


ODE  XXI.     TO  A  JAR  OF  WINE.  183 


ODE  XXI.  • 

TO  A  JAR  OF  WINE. 

O  precious  crock,  whose  summers  date, 
Like  mine,  from  Manlius'  consulate, 
I  wot  not  whether  in  your  breast 
Lie  maudlin  wail  or  merry  jest, 
Or  sudden  choler,  or  the  fire 
Of  tipsy  Love's  insane  desire, 
Or  fumes  of  soft  caressing  sleep, 
Or  what  more  potent  charms  you  keep, 
But  this  I  know,  your  ripened  power 
Befits  some  choicely  festive  hour. 
A  cup  peculiarly  mellow 
Corvinus  asks ;  so  come,  old  fellow, 
From  your  time-honoured  bin  descend, 
And  let  me  gratify  my  friend  ! 
No  churl  is  he,  your  charms  to  slight, 
Though  most  intensely  erudite  : 
And  even  old  Cato's  worth,  we  know, 
Took  from  good  wine  a  nobler  glow. 

Your  magic  power  of  wit  can  spread 
The  halo  round  a  dullard's  head, 
Can  make  the  sage  forget  his  care, 
His  bosom's  inmost  thoughts  unbare, 
And  drown  his  solemn-faced  pretence 
Beneath  your  blithesome  influence. 
Bright  hope  you  bring  and  vigour  back 
To  minds  outworn  upon  the  rack, 


184  ODE  XXI.     TO  A  JAR  OF  WINE. 


And  put  such  courage  in  the  brain, 
As  makes  the  poor  be  men  again, 
Whom  neither  tyrants'  wrath  affrights, 
Nor  all  their  bristling  satellites. 

Bacchus,  and  Yenus,  so  that  she 
Bring  only  frank  festivity, 
With  sister  Graces  in  her  train, 
Entwining  close  in  lovely  chain. 
And  gladsome  tapers'  living  light, 
Shall  spread  your  treasures  o'er  the  night, 
Till  Phoebus  the  red  East  unbars, 
And  puts  to  rout  the  trembling  stars. 


ODE  XXII.     TO  DIANA. 


185 


ODE  XXII. 

TO  DIANA. 

Hail,  guardian  maid 
Of  mount  and  forest  glade, 

Who,  thrice  invoked,  dost  bow 
Thine  ear,  and  sendest  aid 
To  girls  in  labour  with  the  womb, 
And  snatchest  them  from  an  untimely  tomb, 
Goddess  three-formed  thou ! 

I  consecrate  as  thine 
This  overhanging  pine, 

My  villa's  shade ; 
There,  as  my  years  decline, 
The  blood  of  boar  so  young,  that  he 
Dreams  only  yet  of  sidelong  strokes,  by  me 
Shall  joyfully  be  paid  ! 


186 


ODE  XXIII.     TO  PHIDYLK. 


ODE  XXIII. 

TO  PHIDYLE. 

If  thou,  at  each  new  moon,  thine  upturn'd  palms, 
My  rustic  Phidyle,  to  heaven  shalt  lift, 

The  Lares  soothe  with  steam  of  fragrant  balms, 
A  sow,  and  fruits  new-pluck'd,  thy  simple  gift ; 

Nor  venom'd  blast  shall  nip  thy  fertile  vine, 
Nor  mildew  blight  thy  harvest  in  the  ear ; 

Nor  shall  thy  flocks,  sweet  nurslings,  peak  and  pine, 
When  apple-bearing  Autumn  chills  the  year. 

The  victim  mark'd  for  sacrifice,  that  feeds 
On  snow-capp'd  Algidus,  in  leafy  lane 

Of  oak  and  ilex,  or  on  Alba's  meads, 

With  its  rich  blood  the  pontiffs  axe  may  stain ; 

Thy  little  gods  for  humbler  tribute  call, 

Than  blood  of  many  victims  ;  twine  for  them 

Of  rosemary  a  simple  coronal, 

And  the  lush  myrtle's  frail  and  fragrant  stem. 

The  costliest  sacrifice  that  wealth  can  make 
From  the  incensed  Penates  less  commands 

A  soft  response,  than  doth  the  poorest  cake, 
If  on  the  altar  laid  with  spotless  hands. 


ODE  XXIV.     TO  THE  COVETOUS.  187 


ODE  XXIV. 

TO  THE  COVETOUS. 

Though  thou,  of  wealth  possess'd 
Beyond  rich  Ind's.  or  Araby's  the  blest, 

Should'st  with  thy  palace  keeps 
Fill  all  the  Tuscan  and  Apulian  deeps, 

If  Fate,  that  spoiler  dread, 
Her  adamantine  bolts  drive  to  the  head, 

Thou  shalt  not  from  despairs 
Thy  spirit  free,  nor  loose  thy  head  from  death's  dark 
snares. 

The  Scythians  of  the  plains 
More  happy  are,  housed  in  their  wandering  wains, 

More  blest  the  Getan  stout, 
Who  not  from  acres  mark'd  and  meted  out 

Reaps  his  free  fruits  and  grain  : 
A  year,  no  more,  he  rests  in  his  domain, 

Then,  pausing  from  his  toil, 
He  quits  it,  and  in  turn  another  tills  the  soil. 

The  guileless  stepdame  there 
The  orphan  tends  with  all  a  mother's  care ; 

No  dowried  dame  her  spouse 
O'erbears,  or  trusts  the  sleek  seducer's  vows ; 


188         ODE  XXIV.     TO  THE  COVETOUS. 

Her  dower  a  blameless  life, 
True  to  her  lord,  she  shrinks  an  unstain'd  wife 

Even  from  another's  breath  ; 
To  fall  is  there  a  crime,  and  there  the  guerdon  death 

O,  for  the  man,  would  stay 
Our  gory  hands,  our  civil  broils  allay  ! 

If  on  his  statues  he 
Sire  of  the  common- weal  proclaim'd  would  be, 

Let  him  not  fear  to  rein 
Our  wild  licentiousness,  content  to  gain 

From  after-times  renown, 
For  ah  !  while  Virtue  lives,  we  hunt  her  down, 

And  only  learn  to  prize 
Her  worth,  when  she  has  pass'd  forever  from  oui 
eyes ! 

What  boots  it  to  lament, 
If  crime  be  not  cut  down  by  punishment? 

What  can  vain  laws  avail, 
If  life  in  every  moral  virtue  fail  ? 

If  nor  the  clime,  that  glows 
Environ 'd  round  by  fervid  heats,  nor  snows 

And  biting  Northern  wind, 
Which  all  the  earth  in  icy  cerements  bind, 

The  merchant  back  can  keep, 
And  skilful  shipmen  flout  the  horrors  of  the  deep  ? 

Yes  !  Rather  than  be  poor, 
What  will  not  mortals  do,  what  not  endure  ? 

Such  dread  disgrace  to  shun, 
From  virtue's  toilsome  path  away  we  run. 

Quick,  let  us  'mid  the  roar 
Of  crowds  applauding  to  the  echo  pour 

Into  the  Capitol, 
Or  down  into  the  nearest  ocean  roll 

Our  jewels,  gems,  and  gold, 
Dire  nutrimeut  of  ills  and  miseries  untold ! 


ODE  XXIV.     TO  THE  COVETOUS.  189 


If  with  sincere  intent 
We  would  of  our  iniquities  repent, 

Uprooted  then  must  be 
The  very  germs  of  base  cupidity, 

And  our  enervate  souls 
Be  braced  by  manlier  arts  for  nobler  goals  ! 

The  boy  of  noble  race 
Can  now  not  sit  his  steed,  and  dreads  the  chase, 

But  wields  with  mastery  nice 
The  Grecian  hoop,  or  even  the  law-forbidden  dice 

What  marvel,  if  the  while 
His  father,  versed  in  every  perjured  wile, 

For  vilest  private  ends 
Defrauds  his  guests,  his  partners,  and  his  friends, 

His  pride,  his  only  care, 
To  scramble  wealth  for  an  unworthy  heir ! 

They  grow,  his  ill-got  gains, 
But  something  still  he  lacks,  and  something  ne'er 
attains ! 


190 


ODE  XXV.     TO  BACCHUS. 


ODE  XXV. 

TO  BACCHUS. 

Whither,  whither,  full  of  thee, 
Bacchus,  dost  thou  hurry  me  ? 
Say,  what  groves  are  these  I  range, 
Whirl'd  along  by  impulse  strange, 
What  the  caves,  through  which  I  Hy  ? 
Tell  me,  in  what  grot  shall  I 
Swell  illustrious  Caesar's  praise, 
Striving  to  the  stars  to  raise 
Worth  that  worthy  is  to  shine 
In  Jove's  council-hall  divine  ? 

I  a  strain  sublime  "shall  pour, 
Ne'er  by  mortal  sung  before. 
As  the  Eviad,  from  some  height, 
Sleepless  through  the  livelong  night, 
With  a  thrill  of  wild  amaze 
Hebrus  at  his  feet  surveys 
Thrace,  enwrapp'd  in  snowy  sheet, 
Rhodope  by  barbarous  feet 
Trodden,  so  where'er  I  rove 
Far  from  human  haunts,  the  grove, 
Rock,  and  crag,  and  woodland  height 
Charm  me  with  a  wild  delight. 

O  thou,  who  dost  the  Naiads,  and 
The  Bacchanalian  maids  command, 


ODE  XXV.     TO  BACCHUS. 


191 


Whose  hands  uproot,  such  strength  have  they, 
\sh-trees  with  storms  of  ages  grey, 
No  mean,  no  mortal  theme  is  mine, 
Nor  less  my  numbers  than  divine  ! 
Though  perilous,  't  is  glorious  too, 
O  great  Lenaeus,  to  pursue 
The  god,  who  round  his  forehead  twines 
Leaves  gather'd  freshly  from  the  vines. 


\ 


192 


ODE  XXVI.     TO  VKNU3. 


ODE  XXVI. 

TO  VENUS. 

Of  late  I  Ve  been  leading  a  life  of  flirtation, 

And  trophies  have  won.  that  I  care  not  to  show ; 

But  wooing  and  winning  are  only  vexation, 
I 'in  heartily  sick  of  the  business.    Heigho ! 

My  spurs  having  earnd,  I  '11  lay  down  my  armour, 
And  hang  up  my  lyre,  ne'er  to  touch  it  again, 

On  this  wall  by  the  left  hand  of  Venus  the  charmer, 
Bright  Venus  Thalassia,  that  springs  from  the 
main. 

Quick,  quick !  pile  them  here,  while  the  fit  is  upon 
me, 

The  torches,  the  tabors,  the  arrows,  the  pike, 
And  the  crowbar,  which  oft-time  an  entrance  hath 
won  me 

To  beauty  that  only  to  valour  would  strike. 

O  Goddess,  o'er  Cyprus  the  sunny  who  reignest, 
Fair  queen  of  soft  Memphis,  obbge  me  and  touch 

With  your  scourge  that  minx  Chlbe  —  the  scorn- 
fullest,  vainest  — 
Just  so  as  to  frighten,  but  not  hurt  her  —  much ! 


ODE  XXVII.  TO  GALATEA,  GOING  TO  SEA. 


ODE  XXVII. 

TO  GALATEA,  GOING  TO  SEA. 

Let  omens  dire  the  bad  attend, 
Who  would  upon  a  journey  wend,  — 
The  bitch  in  whelp,  the  screeching  owl 
The  dun  she-wolf  upon  her  prowl 
Of  hunger  from  Lanuvium's  rocks, 
And,  worse  than  all,  the  pregnant  fox; 
Nor  care  I  if,  their  course  to  break, 
With  sudden  spring  some  nimble  snake 
Shall  cross  the  road-way  like  a  dart, 
And  make  their  carriage  horses  start ! 
But  I  with  sage  forecasting  skill, 
For  her  I  love  and  fear  for  will 
By  my  strong  pray'rs'  resistless  force 
Call  from  the  East  the  raven  hoarse, 
Ere,  scenting  rain  at  hand,  again 
It  seek  its  haunts  amid  the  fen. 

May'st  thou  be  happy,  wheresoe'er 
Thou  go'st,  and  me  in  memory  bear, 
Fair  Galatea  !   Boding  jay 
Nor  vagrant  crow  shall  bar  thy  way. 
But  see,  with  what  a  troubled  glare 
Orion's  star  is  setting  there ! 
Trust  me  !  I 've  wrestled  with  the  gales 
Of  Hadria's  gulf,  could  tell  thee  tales, 
Would  scare  thee,  of  the  mischief  too, 
Which  smooth-lipp'd  western  winds  can  do 
9  M 


194    ODE  XXVII.  TO  GALATEA,  GOING  TO  SEA- 

Let  our  foes'  wives,  and  all  their  kind, 
Feel  rising  Auster's  fury  blind, 
And  shudder  at  black  ocean's  roar, 
What  time  it  smites  the  trembling  shore. 
Like  thee,  Europa  her  fair  side 
Did  to  the  treacherous  bull  confide, 
But  found  her  courage  fail,  when  she 
Beheld  the  monsters  of  the  sea  ; 
She  who  but  late  through  all  her  hours 
Amongst  the  meads  cull'd  wilding  flowers, 
In  garlands  and  festoons  to  twine 
Around  the  guardian  wood-nymphs'  shrine, 
Now  nought  beneath  the  louring  sky 
But  stars  and  billows  could  descry. 

Soon  as  she  touch'd  the  Cretan  ground, 
For  five  score  cities  fair  renown'd, 
"  How,  O  my  sire  !  "  did  she  exclaim, 
"  Have  I  foregone  a  daughter's  name  ? 
Slave  to  mad  passion,  how  have  I 
Broke  every  holy  filial  tie  ? 
Whence  have  I  come,  and  whither  flown? 
One  death  is  worthless  to  atone 
For  guilt  like  mine,  so  base,  so  deep ! 
Wake  I,  and  have  I  cause  to  weep  ? 
Or  is  my  soul  yet  free  from  stain, 
And  these  but  phantoms  of  the  brain, 
Mere  incorporeal  films  of  dream, 
Which  through  Sleep's  ivory  portal  stream  ? 

"  O  madness,  to  have  left  my  home, 
To  deem  it  happier,  thus  to  roam 
Yon  weary  waste  of  waters  blue, 
Than  gather  flowers  that  freshly  grew ! 
If  any  to  my  rage  should  now 
Yield  that  vile  bull,  this  steel,  I  vow, 
Should  hew  him  down  before  me  here, 
And  break  his  horns  though  late  so  dear. 
Shameless  my  father's  hearth  I  fled  1 


ODE  XXVII.  TO  GALATEA,  GOING  TO  SEA.  190 


Shameless  I  shrink  from  Orcus  dread  ! 
Place  me,  ye  gods,  in  righteous  wrath, 
Naked  upon  the  lion's  path, 
Or  give  me,  ere  grief's  wasting  might 
The  blossoms  of  my  cheek  shall  blight, 
And  sap  my  blood's  warm  tide  away, 
To  be  the  hungry  tiger's  prey ! 

"  Why,  vile  Europa,  linger  ?  why  ?  . 
I  hear  my  absent  father  cry. 
Quick,  hang  thee  on  yon  ash !  Thy  zone 
Will  serve  thee  —  that  is  still  thine  own  ; 
Or  if  yon  cliff  delight  thee  more, 
These  death-edged  rocks,  that  strew  the  shore, 
Then  to  the  driving  tempest  give 
Thyself,  unless  thou  'dst  rather  live 
A  bondslave,  carding  servile  wool, 
'Neath  some  barbarian  princess'  rule, 
And  brook,  though  sprung  of  royal  race, 
A  vulgar  concubine's  disgrace  !  " 

As  thus  she  pour'd  her  wail  on  high, 
Yenus  the  while  stood  laughing  by, 
And  to  her  side,  with  bow  unstrung, 
Her  boy,  the  rosy  Cupid,  clung. 
When  she  of  mirth  her  fill  had  ta'en, 
"  This  boiling  rage,"  she  cried,  "  restrain, 
Since  yon  detested  bull  shall  bend 
His  horns  for  thee  at  will  to  rend. 
Know'st  not,  thou  art  Jove's  honour'd  bride  ? 
Then  dry  thy  tears,  and  own  with  pride 
Thy  mighty  fortune,  mightier  fame, 
For  half  the  globe  shall  bear  thy  name !" 


196 


ode  xxvni.    ro  lyde. 


ODE  XXVIII. 

TO  LYDE. 

What  goodlier  or  fitter  plan 
Have  I  for  Neptune's  festal  day  ? 

Then  forth  the  hoarded  Csecuban, 
My  Lyde.  bring  without  delay, 

And  for  a  season,  if  you  can, 

Fling  wisdom's  sober  saws  away ! 

You  see  the  waning  light  decay, 
And  yet  you  pause  and  hesitate,  — 

As  though  the  day  its  flight  would  stay,— 
To  pluck  down  from  its  cellar'd  state 

The  amphora,  was  stored  away 
In  Bibulus's  consulate. 

In  alternating  strains  shall  we 

Sing  Xeptune,  and  the  deep-green  hair 
Of  Xereids  sporting  through  the  sea; 

And  thou  on  curved  lyre  with  fair 
Latona.  and  the  shafts  so  free 

Of  Cynthia,  shalt  enchant  the  air. 

And  she.  who  Cnidos  makes  her  care, 
And  dwells  amidst  the  Cyclads  bright. 

And  doth  to  Paphos  oft  repair 

With  team  of  swans  for  her  delight, 

Shall  have  our  closing  song :  and  rare 
Shall  be  our  hymn  in  praise  of  Xight 


ODE  XXIX.     TO  MAECENAS. 


ODE  XXIX. 

TO  MAECENAS. 

Scion  of  Tuscan  kings,  in  store 
I 've  laid  a  cask  of  mellow  wine, 

That  never  has  been  broach'd  before. 
I  Ve  roses,  too,  for  wreaths  to  twine, 

And  Nubian  nut,  that  for  thy  hair 

An  oil  shall  yield  of  fragrance  rare. 

Then  linger  not,  but  hither  wend! 

Nor  always  from  afar  survey 
Dank  Tibur's  leafy  heights,  my  friend, 

The  sloping  lawns  of  iEsula, 
And  mountain  peaks  of  Circe's  son, 
The  parricidal  Telegon. 

The  plenty  quit,  that  only  palls, 

And,  turning  from  the  cloud-cappM  pile, 

That  towers  above  thy  palace  halls, 
Forget  to  worship  for  a  while 

The  privileges  Rome  enjoys, 

Her  smoke,  her  splendour,  and  her  noise. 

It  is  the  rich  who  relish  best 

To  dwell  at  times  from  state  aloof, 

And  simple  suppers,  neatly  dress'd, 
Beneath  a  poor  man's  humble  roof, 

With  neither  pall  nor  purple  there, 

Have  smoothed  ere  now  the  brow  of  care. 


ODE  XXIX.     TO  MAECENAS. 


See,  now  Andromeda's  bright  sire 
Reveals  his  erewhile  hidden  rays, 

Now  Procyon  flames  with  fiercest  fire, 
Mad  Leo's  star  is  all  ablaze, 

For  the  revolving  sun  has  brought 

The  season  round  of  parching  drought. 

Now  with  his  spent  and  languid  flocks 
The  wearied  shepherd  seeks  the  shade, 

The  river  cool,  the  shaggy  rocks, 
That  overhang  the  tangled  glade, 

And  by  the  stream  no  breeze's  gush 

Disturbs  the  universal  hush. 

Thou  dost  devise  with  sleepless  zeal 

-  What  course  may  best  the  state  beseem, 

And,  fearful  for  the  City's  weal, 

Weigh'st  anxiously  each  hostile  scheme, 
That  may  be  hatching  far  away 
In  Scythia,  India,  or  Cathay. 

Most  wisely  Jove  in  thickest  night 

The  issues  of  the  future  veils, 
And  laughs  at  the  self-torturing  wight, 

Who  with  imagined  terrors  quails. 
The  present  only  is  thine  own, 
Then  use  it  well,  ere  it  has  flown. 

All  else  which  may  by  time  be  bred 

Is  like  a  river  of  the  plain, 
Now  gliding  gently  o'er  its  bed 

Along  to  the  Etruscan  main, 
Now  whirling  onwards,  fierce  and  fast, 
Uprooted  trees,  and  boulders  vast, 

And  flocks,  and  houses,  all  in  drear 
Confusion  toss'd  from  shore  to  shore, 

While  mountains  far,  and  forests  near 
Reverberate  the  rising  roar, 


ODE  XXIX.     TO  MAECENAS. 


199 


When  lashing  rains  among  the  hills 
To  fuiy  wake  the  quiet  rills. 

Lord  of  himself  that  man  will  be, 

And  happy  in  his  life  alway, 
Who  still  at  eve  can  say  with  free 

Contented  soul,  "  I 've  lived  to-day ! 
Let  Jove  to-morrow,  if  he  will, 
With  blackest  Clouds  the  welkin  fill, 

Or  flood  it  all  with  sunlight  pure, 
Yet  from  the  past  he  cannot  take 

Its  influence,  for  that  is  sure, 

Nor  can  he  mar,  or  bootless  make 

Whate'er  of  rapture  and  delight 

The  hours  have  borne  us  in  their  flight." 

Fortune,  who  with  malicious  glee 

Her  merciless  vocation  plies, 
Benignly  smiling  now  on  me, 

Now  on  another,  bids  him  rise, 
And  in  mere  wantonness  of  whim 
Her  favours  shifts  from  me  to  him. 

I  laud  her,  whilst  by  me  she  holds, 
But  if  she  spread  her  pinions  swift, 

I  wrap  me  in  my  virtue's  folds, 

And  yielding  back  her  every  gift,  . 

Take  refuge  in  the  life  so  free 

Of  bare  but  honest  poverty. 

You  will  not  find  me,  when  the  mast 

Groans  'neath  the  stress  of  southern  gales, 

To  wretched  pray'rs  rush  off,  nor  cast 
Vows  to  the  great  gods,  lest  my  bales 

From  Tyre  or  Cyprus  sink,  to  be 

Fresh  booty  for  the  hungry  sea. 


ODE  XXIX.     TO  MAECENAS. 


When  others  then  in  wild  despair 
To  save  their  cumbrous  wealth  essay, 

I  to  the  vessel's  skiff  repair, 

And,  whilst  the  Twin  Stars  light  my  way. 

Safely  the  breeze  my  little  craft 

Shall  o'er  the  Egean  billows  waft. 


ODE  XXX.     TO  MELPOMENE. 


ODE  XXX. 
TO  MELPOMENE. 

I 've  reared  a  monument,  my  own, 

More  durable  than  brass, 
Yea,  kingly  pyramids  of  stone 

In  height  it  doth  surpass. 

Rain  shall  not  sap,  nor  driving  blast 

Disturb  its  settled  base, 
Nor  countless  ages  rolling  past 

Its  symmetry  deface. 

I  shall  not  wholly  die.    Some  part, 

Nor  that  a  little,  shall 
Escape  the  dark  destroyer's  dart, 

And  his  grim  festival. 

For  long  as  with  his  Vestals  mute 
Rome's  Pontifex  shall  climb 

The  Capitol,  my  fame  shall  shoot 
Fresh  buds  through  future  time. 

Where  brawls  loud  Aufidus,  and  came 
Parch'd  Daunus  erst,  a  horde 

Of  rustic  boors  to  sway  my  name 
Shall  be  a  household  word  ; 
9* 


202 


ODE  XXX.     TO  MELPOMENE. 


As  one  who  rose  from  mean  estate, 

The  first  with  poet  fire 
zEolic  song  to  modulate 

To  the  Italian  lyre. 

Then  grant,  Melpomene,  thy  son 
Thy  guerdon  proud  to  wear, 

And  Delphic  laurels  duly  won 
Bind  thou  upon  my  hair ! 


BOOK  IV. 


ODE  I. 


THE  PAINS  OF  LOVE. 

ALTERED   FROM   BEN  JONSON. 

Venus,  dost  thou  renew  a  fray 
Long  intermitted  ?    Spare  me,  spare,  I  pray ! 

I  am  not  such  as  in  the  reign 
Of  the  good  Cinara  I  was.  Refrain, 

Sweet  Love's  sour  mother,  him  to  school, 
Whom  lustres  ten  have  hardened  to  thy  rule, 

And  soft  behests ;  and  hie  thee  where 
Youth  calls  to  thee  with  many  a  fondling  prayer  • 
•    More  fitly  —  if  thou  seek  to  fire 
A  bosom  apt  for  love  and  young  desire  — 

Come,  borne  by  bright-wing'd  swans,  and  thus 
Revel  in  the  house  of  Paulus  Maximus ; 

Since,  noble,  and  of  graces  choice, 
For  troubled  clients  voluble  of  voice, 

And  lord  of  countless  arts,  afar 
Will  he  advance  the  banners  of  thy  war. 

And  when  he  shall  with  smiles  behold 
His  native  charms  eclipse  his  rival's  gold, 

He  will  thyself  in  marble  rear, 
Beneath  a  cedarn  roof  near  Alba's  mere. 

There  shall  thy  dainty  nostril  take 
In  many  a  gum,  and  for  thy  soft  ear's  sake 

Shall  verse  be  set  to  harp  and  lute, 
And  Phrygian  hautboy,  not  without  the  flute. 


206  ODE  I.     THE  PAINS  OF  LOVE. 


There  twice  a  day,  in  sacred  lays, 
Shall  youths  and  tender  maidens  sing  thy  praise ; 

And  thrice  in  Salian  manner  beat 
The  ground  in  cadence  with  their  ivory  feet. 

Me  neither  damsel  now,  nor  boy 
Delights,  nor  credulous  hope  of  mutual  joy ; 

Nor  glads  me  now  the  deep  carouse, 
Nor  with  dew-dropping  flowers  to  bind  my  brows. 

But  why,  oh  why,  my  Ligurine, 
Flow  my  thin  tears  down  these  poor  cheeks  of  mine  ? 

Or  why,  my  well-graced  words  among, 
With  an  uncomely  silence  fails  my  tongue  ? 

I  dream,  thou  cruel  one,  by  night, 
I  hold  thee  fast ;  anon,  fled  with  th*  light, 

Whether  in  Field  of  Mars  thou  ue, 
Or  Tiber's  rolling  streams,  I  follow  thee- 


ODE  II.     TO  IULUS  ANTONIUS.  207 


ODE  II. 
hi  IULUS  ANTONIUS. 

Iulus,  he,  who 'd  rival  Pindar's  fame, 

On  waxen  wings  doth  sweep 

The  Empyrean  steep, 
To  fall  like  Icarus,  and  with  his  name 

Endue  the  glassy  deep. 

Like  to  a  mountain  stream,  that  roars 

From  bank  to  bank  along, 

When  autumn  rains  are  strong, 
So  deep-mouth'd  Pindar  lifts  his  voice,  and  pours 

His  fierce  tumultuous  song. 

Worthy  Apollo's  laurel  wreath, 

Whether  he  strike  the  lyre 

To  love  and  young  desire, 
While  bold  and  lawless  numbers  grow  beneath 

His  mastering  touch  of  fire  ; 

Or  sings  of  gods,  and  monarchs  sprung 

Of  gods,  that  overthrew, 

The  Centaurs,  hideous  crew, 
And,  fearless  of  the  monster's  fiery  tongue, 

The  dread  Chimaera  slew. 


208 


ODE  II.    TO  IULUS  ANTONIUS. 


Or  those  the  Elean  palm  doth  lift 

To  heaven,  for  winged  steed, 

Or  sturdy  arm  decreed, 
Giving,  than  hundred  statues  nobler  gift, 

The  poet's  deathless  meed ; 

Or  mourns  the  youth  snatch'd  from  his  bride, 

Extols  his  manhood  clear, 

And  to  the  starry  sphere 
Exalts  his  golden  virtues,  scattering  wide 

The  gloom  of  Orcus  drear. 

When  the  Dircean  Swan  doth  climb 

Into  the  azure  sky, 

There  poised  in  ether  high, 
He  courts  each  gale,  and  floats  on  wing  sublime, 

Soaring  with  steadfast  eye. 

I,  like  the  tiny  bee,  that  sips' 

The  fragrant  thyme,  and  strays 

Humming  through  leafy  ways, 
By  Tibur's  sedgy  banks,  with  trembling  lips 

Fashion  my  toilsome  lays. 

But  thou;  when  up  the  sacred  steep 

Csesar,  with  garlands  crown'd, 

Leads  the  Sicambrians  bound, 
"With  bolder  hand  the  echoing  strings  shalt  sweep, 

And  bolder  measures  sound. 

Cassar,  than  whom  a  nobler  son 

The  Fates  and  Heaven's  kind  powers 
Ne'er  gave  this  earth  of  ours, 

Nor  e'er  will  give,  though  backward  time  should  run 
To  its  first  golden  hours. 

Thou,  too,  shalt  sing  the  joyful  days, 
The  city's  festive  throng, 
When  Cassar,  absent  long, 


ODE  II.     TO  IULUS  ANTONIUS.  209 


At  length  returns,  —  the  Forum's  silent  ways, 
Serene  from  strife  and  wrong. 

Then,  though  in  statelier  power  it  lack, 

My  voice  shall  swell  the  lay, 

And  sing,  "  O,  glorious  day, 
O  day  thrice  blest,  that  gives  great  Caesar  back 

To  Rome,  from  hostile  fray  ! " 

"  Io  Triumphe  ! "  thrice  the  cry ; 

"  Io  Triumphe  !  "  loud 

Shall  shout  the  echoing  crowd 
The  city  through,  and  to  the  gods  on  high 

Raise  incense  like  a  cloud. 

Ten  bulls  shall  pay  thy  sacrifice, 

With  whom  ten  kine  shall  bleed, 

I  to  the  fane  will  lead 
A  yearling  of  the  herd,  of  modest  size, 

From  the  luxuriant  mead, 

Horn'd  like  the  moon,  when  her  pale  light, 

Which  three  brief  days  have  fed, 

She  trimmeth,  and,  dispread 
On  his  broad  brows  a  spot  of  snowy  white, 

All  else  a  tawny  red. 


210 


ODE  III.     TO  MELPOMENE. 


ODE  III. 

TO  MELPOMENE. 

The  man  whom  thou,  bright  Muse  of  pong, 
Didst  at  his  birth  regard  with  smiling  calm, 

Shall  win  no  glory  in  the  Isthmian  throng, 
From  lusty  wrestlers  bearing  off  the  palm, 

Nor  ever,  reining  steed  of  fire,  shall  he 

In  swift  Achaian  car  roll  on  victoriously. 

Nor  him  shall  warfare's  stern  renown, 
Nor  baffled  menaces  of  mighty  kings, 

Bear  to  the  Capitol  with  laural  crown  ; 

But  streams  that  kiss  with  gentle  murm firings 

Bich  Tibur's  vale,  —  thick  wood,  and  mossy  brake, 

Him  of  the  JEolian  lyre  shall  worthy  master  make. 

At  Borne,  of  all  earth's  cities  queen, 

Men  deign  to  rank  me  in  the  noble  press 

Of  bards  beloved  of  man  ;  and  now,  I  ween, 
Doth  envy's  rancorous  tooth  assail  me  less. 

O  thou  loved  Muse,  who  temperest  the  swell 

And  modulated  noise  of  the  sweet  golden  shell ! 

O  thou,  who  canst  at  will  endow 

Mute  fish  with  swanlike  voices  soft  and  sweet, 
'Tis  all  thy  gift,  that,  as  they  pass  me  now, 

Men  point  me  to  their  fellows  on  the  street, 
As  lord  and  chief  of  Boman  minstrelsy ; 
Yes,  that  I  sing  and  please,  if  please,  is  due  to  thee. 


ODE  IV.     THE  PRAISES  OF  DRUSUS.  211 


OiiE  J  V. 

THE  PRAISES  OF  DRUSUS, 

Like  as  the  thunder-bearing  bird, 

(On  whom  o'er  all  the  fowls  of  air 
Dominion  was  by  Jove  conferr'd, 
Because  with  loyal  care 
He  bore  away  to  heaven  young  Ganymede  the  fair,) 

Whom  native  vigour  and  the  rush 

Of  youth  have  spurr'd  to  quit  the  nest, 
And  skies  of  blue,  in  springtide's  flush 
Entice  aloft  to  breast 
The  gales  he  fear'd  before  his  lordly  plumes  were 
drest, 

Now  swooping,  eager  for  his  prey, 

Spreads  havoc  through  the  fiutter'd  fold,  — 
Straight,  fired  by  love  of  food  and  fray, 
In  grapple  fierce  and  bold 
The  struggling  dragons  rends  e  v'n  in  their  rocky  hold : 

Or  like  the  lion's  whejp,  but  now 

Wean'd  from  his  tawny  mother's  side, 
By  tender  kidling  on  the  brow 
Of  some  green  slope  espied, 
Whose  unflesh'd  teeth  she  knows  will  in  her  blood 
be  dyed ; 


212       ODE  IV.     THE  PRAISES  OF  DRUSU8. 

So  dread,  so  terrible  in  war 

Our  noble  Drusus  shew'd,  when  through 
The  Khsetian  Alpine  glens  afar 
His  conquering  eagles  flew, 
And  swiftly  the  appall'd  Vindelici  o'erthrew. 

Whence  came  their  custom,  —  in  the  night 

Of  farthest  time  it  flourish'd  there,  — 
With  Amazonian  axe  to  fight, 
To  question  I  forbear ; 
Nor  everything  to  know,  may  any  mortal  dare ; 

But  this  I  know ;  their  hosts,  that  still, 
Where'er  they  came,  victorious  fought, 

In  turn  by  that  young  hero's  skill 
Revanquish'd,  have  been  taught 
To  feel  what  marvels  may  of  enterprise  be  wrought 

By  valiant  heart  and  vigorous  head, 
In  home  auspicious  train'd  to  power, 

What  by  the  noble  spirit  fed 
In  Nero's  sons  by  our 
Augustus,  who  on  them  a  father's  care  did  shower. 

'T  is  of  the  brave  and  good  alone 

That  good  and  brave  men  are  seed; 
The  virtues,  which  their  sires  have  shewn, 
Are  found  in  steer  and  steed ; 
Nor  do  the  eagles  fierce  the  gentle  ringdove  breed 

Yet  training  quickens  power  inborn, 
And  culture  nerves  the  soul  for  fame  ; 

But  he  must  live  a  life  of  scorn, 
Who  bears  a  noble  name, 
Yet  blurs  it  with  the  soil  of  infamy  and  shame. 

What  thou,  Rome,  dost  the  Neros  owe, 

Let  dark  Metaurus'  river  say, 
And  Asdrubal,  thy  vanquish'd  foe, 


ODE  IV.     THE  PRAISES  OF  DRUSUS.  213 


And  that  auspicious  day, 
Which  through  the  scatter'd  gloom  broke  forth  with 
smiling  ray. 

When  joy  again  to  Latium  came, 

Nor  longer  through  her  towns  at  ease 

The  fatal  Lybian  swept,  like  name 
Among  the  forest  trees ; 
Or  Eurus'  headlong  gust  across  Sicilian  seas. 

Thenceforth,  for  with  success  they  toiPd, 
Rome's  youth  in  vigour  wax'd  amain, 

And  temples  ravaged  and  despoil'd 
By  Punic  hordes  profane 
Upraised  within  their  shrines  beheld  their  gods  again. 

Till  spoke  false  Hannibal  at  length ; 

44  Like  stags,  of  ravening  wolves  the  prey, 
Why  rush  to  grapple  with  their  strength, 

From  whom  to  steal  away 
The  loftiest  triumph  is,  they  leave  for  us  to-day  ? 

"  That  race,  inflexible  as  brave, 

From  Ilium  quench'd  in  flames  who  bore 
Across  the  wild  Etruscan  wave 
Their  babes,  their  grandsires  hoar, 
And  all  their  sacred  things,  to  the  Ausonian  shore, 

"  Like  oak,  by  sturdy  axes  lopp'd 

Of  all  its  boughs,  which  once  the  brakes 
Of  shaggy  Algidus  o'ertopp'd, 
Its  loss  its  glory  makes, 
And  from  the  very  steel  fresh  strength  and  spirit  takes. 

"  Not  Hydra,  cleft  through  all  its  trunk, 
With  fresher  vigour  wax'd  and  spread, 

Till  even  Alcides'  spirit  shrunk ; 
Nor  yet  hath  Colchis  dread, 
Or  Echionean  Thebes  more  fatal  monster  bred. 


214      ODE  IV.     THE  PRAISES  OF  T>RUSUS. 


u  In  ocean  plunge  it,  and  more  bright 

It  rises ;  scatter  it,  and  lo  ! 
Its  unscathed  victors  it  will  smite 
With  direful  overthrow, 
And  Koine's  proud  dames  shall  tell  of  many  a  routed 
foe. 


"No  messengers  in  boastful  pride 
Will  I  to  Carthage  send  again ; 
Our  every  hope,  it  died,  it  died, 
When  Asdrubal  was  slain, 
And  with  his  fall  our  name  s  an-conquering  star  did 
wane. 


"  No  peril,  but  the  Claudian  line 

Will  front  and  master  it,  for  they 
Are  shielded  by  Jove's  grace  divine, 

And  counsels  sage  alway 
Their  hosts  through  war's  rough  paths  successfully 

convey ! " 


ODE  V.     TO  AUGUSTUS. 


215 


ODE  V. 

TO  AUGUSTUS. 

From  gods  benign  descended,  thou 
Best  guardian  of  the  fates  of  Rome, 
Too  long  already  from  thy  home, 

Hast  thou,  dear  chief,  been  absent  now ; 

O  then  return,  the  pledge  redeem, 

Thou  gav'st  the  Senate,  and  once  more 
Its  light  to  all  the  land  restore  ; 

For  when  thy  face,  like  spring-tide's  gleam, 

Its  brightness  on  the  people  sheds, 
Then  glides  the  day  more  sweetly  by, 
A  brighter  blue  pervades  the  sky, 

The  sun  a  richer  radiance  spreads ! 

As  on  her  boy  the  mother  calls, 

Her  boy,  whom  envious  tempests  keep 
Beyond  the  vex'd  Carpathian  deep, 

From  his  dear  home,  till  winter  falls, 

And  still  with  vow  and  pray'r  she  cries, 
Still  gazes  on  the  winding  shore, 
So  yearns  the  country  evermore 

For  Caesar,  with  fond,  wistful  eyes. 


ODE  V.     TO  AUGUSTUS. 


For  safe  the  herds  range  field  and  fen, 
Full-headed  stand  the  shocks  of  grain, 
Our  sailors  sweep  the  peaceful  main, 

And  man  can  trust  his  fellow-men. 

No  more  adulterers  stain  our  beds, 
Laws,  morals  both  that  taint  efface, 
The  husband  in  the  child  we  trace, 

And  close  on  crime  sure  vengeance  treads. 

The  Parthian,  under  Csesar's  reign, 
Or  icy  Scythian,  who  can  dread, 
Or  all  the  tribes  barbarian  bred 

By  Germany,  or  ruthless  Spain  ? 

Now  each  man,  basking  on  his  slopes, 
Weds  to  his  widow'd  trees  the  vine, 
Then,  as  he  gaily  quaffs  his  wine, 

Salutes  thee  God  of  all  his  hopes ; 

And  prayers  to  thee  devoutly  sends, 
With  deep  libations  ;  and,  as  Greece 
Ranks  Castor  and  great  Hercules, 

Thy  godship  with  his  Lares  blends. 

O,  may'st  thou  on  Hesperia  shine, 
Her  chief,  her  joy,  for  many  a  day  ! 
Thus,  dry-lipp'd,  thus  at  morn  we  pray, 

Thus  pray  at  eve,  when  flush'd  with  wine ! 


ODE  VI.  IN  PRAISE  OF  APOLLO  AND  DIANA  217 


ODE  VI. 

IN  PRAISE  OF  APOLLO  AND  DIANA. 

Thou  god,  who  art  potent  that  tongue  to  chastise, 
Which  e'er  by  its  vaunts  the  Immortals  defies, 
As  well  as  the  sad  offspring  of  Niobe  knew, 
And  Tityus,  profanest  of  ravishers  too, 
And  Phthian  Achilles,  who  well-nigh  o'ercame 
Proud  Troy,  of  all  warriors  the  foremost  in  fame, 
Yet  ne'er  with  thyself  to  be  match'd ;  for  though  he 
Was  begotten  of  Thetis,  fair  nymph  of  the  sea, 
And  shook  the  Dardanian  turrets  with  fear, 
As  he  crash'd  through  the  fray  with  his  terrible 
spear, 

Like  a  pine,  by  the  biting  steel  struck  and  down 
cast, 

Or  cypress  o'erthrown  by  the  hurricane  blast, 
Far  prostrate  he  fell,  and  in  Teucrian  dust 
His  locks  all  dishevell'd  ignobly  were  thrust. 
He  would  not,  shut  up  in  the  horse,  that  was  feign'd 
To  be  vow'd  to  the  rites  of  Minerva,  have  deign'd 
In  their  ill-timed  carouse  on  the  Trojans  to  fall, 
When  the  festival  dance  gladden'd  Priam's  high 
hall; 

No  !  He  to  the  captives  remorseless,  —  O  shame  ! 
In  the  broad  face  of  day  to  Greek  fagot  and  flame 
Their  babes  would  have  flung,  yea,  as  ruthless  a 
doom 

Would  have  wreak'd  upon  those  who  still  slept  in 
the  womb, 
10 


218     ODE  VI.  IN  PRAISE  OF  APOLLO  AND  DIANA. 

If  won  by  sweet  Venus'  entreaties  and  thine, 
The  Sire  of  the  Gods,  with  a  bounty  benign, 
A  city  had  not  to  zEneas  allow'd, 
To  stand  through  the  ages  triumphant  and  proud ! 
Thou,  who  taught'st  keen  Thalia  the  plectrum,  to 
guide, 

Thou,  who  lavest  thy  tresses  in  Xanthus's  tide, 

O  beardless  Agyieus,  uphold,  I  implore, 

The  fame  of  the  Daunian  Muse  evermore, 

For 't  was  thou  didst  inspire  me  with  poesy's  flame, 

Thou  gav'st  me  the  art  of  the  bard,  and  his  name ! 

Ye  virgins,  the  foremost  in  rank  and  in  race, 
Ye  boys,  who  the  fame  of  your  ancestry  grace, 
Fair  wards  of  the  Delian  goddess,  whose  bow 
Lays  the  swift-footed  lynx  and  the  antelope  low, 
To  the  Lesbian  measure  keep  time  with  your  feet, 
And  sing  in  accord  with  my  thumb  in  its  beat; 
Hymn  the  son  of  Latona  in  cadence  aright, 
Hymn  duly  the  still-waxing  lamp  of  the  night, 
That  with  plentiful  fruitage  the  season  doth  cheer, 
And  speeds  the  swift  months  on  to  girdle  the  year ! 

And  thou,  who  art  chief  of  the  chorus  to-day, 
Soon  borne  home  a  bride  in  thy  beauty  shalt  say, 
"  When  the  cyclical  year  brought  its  festival  days, 
My  voice  led  the  hymn  of  thanksgiving  and  praise, 
So  sweet  the  Immortals  to  hear  it  were  fain, 
And  't  was  Horace  the  poet  who  taught  me  the 
strain ! " 


ODE  VII.     TO  TORQUATUS.  21  d 


ODE  VII. 

TO  TORQUATUS. 

The  snows  have  fled,  and  to  the  meadows  now 
Returns  their  grass,  their  foliage  to  the  trees ; 

Earth  dons  another  garb,  and  dwindling  low 

Between  their  wonted  banks  the  rivers  seek  the 
seas. 

The  Graces  with  the  Nymphs  their  dances  twine, 
Unzoned,  and  heedless  of  the  amorous  air ; 

Read  in  the  shifting  year,  my  friend,  a  sign, 

That  change  and  death  attend  all  human  hope 
and  care. 

Winter  dissolves  beneath  the  breath  of  Spring, 
Spring  yields  to  Summer,  which  shall  be  no  more, 

When  Autumn  spreads  her  fruits  thick-clustering, 
And  then  comes  Winter  back,  —  bleak,  icy-dead, 
and  hoar. 

But  moons  revolve,  and  all  again  is  bright : 
We,  when  we  fall,  as  fell  the  good  and  just 

JEneas,  wealthy  Tullus,  Ancus  wight, 

Are  but  a  nameless  shade,  and  some  poor  grains 
of  dust. 

Who  knows,  if  they  who  all  our  Fates  control, 
Will  add  a  morrow  to  thy  brief  to-day  ? 


220 


ODE  VII.     TO  TORQUATUS. 


Then  think  of  this,  —  What  to  a  friendly  soul 
Thy  hand  doth  give  shall  'scape  thine  heir's  rapa- 
cious sway. 

When  thou,  Torquatus,  once  hast  vanish'd  hence, 
And  o'er  thee  Minos'  great  decree  is  writ, 

Nor  ancestry,  nor  fire-lipp'd  eloquence, 

Nor  all  thy  store  of  wealth  to  give  thee  back 
were  fit. 

For  even  Diana  from  the  Stygian  gloom 
Her  chaste  Hippolytus  no  more  may  gain, 

And  dear  Pirithous  must  bide  his  doom. 

For  Theseus'  arm  is  frail  to  rend  dark  Lethe's 
chain. 


*ODE  VIII.     TO  MARCUS  CENSORINUS.  221 


ODE  VIII. 

TO  MARCUS  CENSORIOUS. 

Cups  on  my  friends  I  would  freely  bestow, 
Dear  Censorinus,  and  bronzes  most  rare, 

Tripods  carved  richly,  in  Greece  long  ago 

The  guerdons  of  heroes,  for  them  I  would  spare ; 

Nor  should  the  worst  of  my  gifts  be  thine  own, 
If  in  my  household  art's  marvels  were  rife, 

Hero  or  god,  wrought  by  Scopas  in  stone, 
Or  by  Parrhasius  coloured  to  life. 

But  unto  me  no  such  dainties  belong, 

Nor  of  them  either  hast  thou  any  dearth : 

►Song  is  thy  joy,  I  can  give  thee  a  song, 

Teach,  too,  the  gift's  all  unmatchable  worth. 

Not  marbles  graven  with  glorious  scrolls 
Penn'd  by  a  nation  with  gratitude  due, 

Records,  in  which  our  great  warriors'  souls 
Tameless  by  death  ever  flourish  anew ! 

Not  flying  enemies,  no,  nor  with  shame 
Hannibal's  menaces  back  on  him  hurl'd, 

Not  fraudful  Carthage  expiring  in  flame, 
Blazon  his  glory  more  bright  to  the  world, 


222      ODE  VIII.     TO  MARCUS  CENSORINUS. 


His  surname  from  Africa  vanquish'd  who  drew, 
Than  doth  the  Calabrian  Muse  by  its  lays  : 

Nor,  if  no  song  tell  your  triumphs,  will  you 
Reap  the  full  guerdon  of  life-giving  praise. 

What  were  great  Mayors'  and  Ilia's  son, 
Had  envious  silence  his  merits  suppress'd  ? 

Styx's  dark  flood  had  o'er  iEacus  run, 

But  song  bore  him  on  to  the  Isles  of  the  Blest. 

Dower'd  by  the  Muse  with  a  home  in  the  sky, 
Ne'er  can  he  perish,  whom  she  doth  approve  : 

Dauntless  Alcides  thus  revels  on  high, 
Guest  at  the  coveted  banquets  of  Jove. 

So  the  Twin  Stars,  as  through  tempests  they  glow, 
Save  the  spent  seaman,  when  most  he  despairs; 

Bacchus,  with  vine-leaves  fresh  garlanded,  so 
Brings  to  fair  issues  his  votary's  pray'rs. 


ODE  IX.     TO  LOLLIUS. 


223 


ODE  IX. 

TO  LOLLIUS. 

Never  deem,  they  must  perish,  the  verses,  which  I, 
Who  was  born  where  the  waters  of  Aufidus  roar, 

To  the  chords  of  the  lyre  with  a  Gunning  ally 
Unknown  to  the  bards  of  my  country  before  ! 

Though  Mseonian  Homer  unrivall'd  may  reign, 
Yet  are  not  the  Muses  Pindaric  unknown, 

The  threats  of  Alca3us,  the  Ceian's  sad  strain, 
Nor  stately  Stesichorus'  lordlier  tone. 

Unforgot  is  the  sportive  Anacreon's  lay, 

Still,  still  sighs  the  passion,  unquench'd  is  the  fire, 

Which  the  Lesbian  maiden  in  days  far  away 

From  her  love-laden  bosom  breathed  into  the  lyre. 

Not  alone  has  Lacsenian  Helena's  gaze 

Been  fix'd  by  the  gloss  of  a  paramour's  hair, 

By  vestments  with  gold  and  with  jewels  ablaze, 
By  regal  array,  and  a  retinue  rare ; 

Nor  did  Teucer  first  wield  the  Cydonian  bow, 
Nor  was  Troy  by  a  foe  but  once  harass'd  and 
wrung  ; 

Nor  Idomeneus  only,  or  Sthenelus  show 

Such  prowess  in  war  as  deserved  to  be  sung ; 


224 


ODE  IX.     TO  LOLLIUS. 


Nor  yet  was  redoubtable  Hector,  nor  brave 
Deiphobus  first  in  the  hard-stricken  field 
By  the  dint  of  the  strokes,  which  they  took  and  they 

gave, 

Then  babes  and  the  wives  of  their  bosoms  to  shield. 

Many,  many  have  lived,  who  were  valiant  in  fight, 
Before  Agamemnon ;  but  all  have  gone  down, 

Unwept  and  unknown,  in  the  darkness  of  night, 
For  lack  of  a  poet  to  hymn  their  renown. 

Hidden  worth  differs  little  from  sepulchred  ease, 
But,  Lollius,  thy  fame  in  my  pages  shall  shine ; 

I  will  not  let  pale-eyed  Forgetfulness  seize 
These  manifold  noble  achievements  of  thine. 

Thou,  my  friend,  hast  a  soul,  by  whose  keen-sighted 

range 

Events  afar  off  in  their  issues  are  seen, 
A  soul,  which  maintains  itself  still  through  each 
change 

Of  good  or  ill  fortune  erect  and  serene. 

Of  rapine  and  fraud  the  avenger  austere, 

To  wealth  and  its  all-snaring  blandishments  proof, 

The  Consul  art  thou  not  of  one  single  year, 
But  as  oft  as  a  judge,  from  all  baseness  aloof, 

Thou  hast  made  the  expedient  give  place  to  the 
right, 

And  flung  back  the  bribes  of  the  guilty  with 
scorn, 

And  on  through  crowds  warring  against  thee  with 
might 

Thy  far-flashing  arms  hast  triumphantly  borne. 

Not  him,  who  of  much  that  men  prize  is  possess'd, 
May'st  thou  fitly  call  "blest";  he  may  claim  to 
enjoy 


CVPE  IX.     TO  LOLLITJS. 


225 


More  fitly,  more  truly,  the  title  of  "  blest," 

Who  wisely  the  gifts  of  the  gods  can  employ ;  — 

Who  want,  and  its  hardships,  and  slights  can  with- 
stand, 

And  shrinks  from  disgrace  as  more  bitter  than 
death; 

Not  he  for  the  friends  whom  he  loves,  or  the  land 
Of  his  fathers  will  dread  to  surrender  his  breath. 


10* 


ODE  X.     TO  A  CRUEL  BEAUTY. 


ODE  X. 

TO  A  CRUEL  BEAUTY. 

Ah,  cruel,  cruel  still, 

And  yet  divinely  fair, 
When  Time  with  fingers  chill 

Shall  thin  the  wavy  hair, 
Which  now  in  many  a  wanton  freak 

Around  thy  shoulders  flows, 
When  fades  the  bloom,  which  on  thy  cheeJc 

Now  shames  the  blushing  rose ; 

Ah,  *hen  as  in  thy  glass 

gazest  in  dismay, 
Thou  'It  cry,  "  Alas !  Alas ! 

Why  feel  I  not  to-day, 
As  in  my  maiden  bloom,  when  I 

Unmoved  heard  lovers  moan  ; 
Or,  now  that  I  would  win  them,  why 

Is  all  my  beauty  flown  ?  " 


ODE  XI.     TO  PHYLLIS. 


227 


ODE  XI. 

TO  PHYLLIS. 

1  have  laid  in  a  cask  of  Albanian  wine, 

Which  nine  mellow  summers  have  ripened  and 
more ; 

In  my  garden,  dear  Phyllis,  thy  brows  to  entwine, 
Grows  the  brightest  of  parsley  in  plentiful  store. 

There  is  ivy  to  gleam  on  thy  dark  glossy  hair ; 
My  plate,  newly  burnish'd,  enlivens  my  rooms ; 

And  the  altar,  athirst  for  its  victim,  is  there, 

Enwreath'd  with  chaste  vervain,  and  choicest  of 
blooms. 

Every  hand  in  the  household  is  busily  toiling, 

And  hither  and  thither  boys  bustle  and  girls ; 
Whilst,  up  from  the  hearth-fires  careering  and  coiling, 

The  smoke  round  the  rafter-beams  languidly  curls. 
Let  the  joys  of  the  revel  be  parted  between  us ! 

'T  is  the  Ides  of  young  April,  the  day  which  divides 
The  month,  dearest  Phyllis,  of  ocean-sprung  Yenus, 

A  day  to  me  dearer  than  any  besides. 

And  well  may  I  prize  it,  and  hail  its  returning  — 

My  own  natal  day  not  more  hallowed  nor  dear  — 
For  Maecenas,  my  friend,  dates  from  this  happy 
morning 

The  life  which  has  swell'd  to  a  lustrous  career. 
You  sigh  for  young  Telephus :  better  forget  him ! 

His  rank  is  not  yours,  and  the  gaudier  charms 
Of  a  girl  that 's  both  wealthy  and  wanton  benet  him, 

And  hold  him  the  fondest  of  slaves  in  her  arms. 


228 


ODE  XI.     TO  PHYLLIS. 


Remember  fond  Phaethon's  fiery  sequel, 

And  heavenward-aspiring  Bellerophon's  fate  ; 

And  pine  not  for  one  who  would  ne'er  be  your  equal, 
But  level  your  hopes  to  a  lowlier  mate. 

So,  come,  my  own  Phyllis,  my  heart's  latest  treas- 
ure,— 

Ah,  ne'er  for  another  this  bosom  shall  long,  — 
And  I  '11  teach,  while  your  loved  voice  re-echoes  the 
measure, 

How  to  lighten  fell  care  with  the  cadence  of  song. 


ODE  XII.     TO  VIRGIL^',  229 


ODE  XII. 

TO  VIRGIL. 

Now  the  soft  gales  of  Thrace,  that  sing  peace  to 
the  ocean, 

Spring's  handmaids,  are  wafting  the  barks  from 
the  shore, 

There  is  life  in  the  meads,  in  the  groves  there  is 
motion, 

And  snow-swollen  torrents  are  raving  no  more. 

Now  buildeth  her  nest,  whilst  for  Itys  still  sadly 
She  mourns,  the  poor  bird,  who  was  fated  to  shame 

The  line  of  old  Cecrops  forever,  by  madly 
Avenging  the  brutal  barbarian's  flame. 

On  the  young  grass  reclined,  near  the  murmur  of 
fountains, 

.  The  shepherds  are  piping  the  songs  of  the  plains, 
And  the  god,  who  loves  Arcady's  purple-hued  moun- 
tains, 

The  God  of  the  Flocks,  is  entranced  by  their 
strains. 

And  thirst,  O  my  Virgil,  comes  in  with  the  season ; 

But  if  you 'd  have  wine  from  the  Calian  press, 
You  must  lure  it  from  me  by  some  nard,  —  and  with 
reason, — 

Thou  favourite  bard  of  our  youthful  noblesse. 


230 


ODE  XII.     TO  VIRGIL. 


Yes,  a  small  box  of  nard  from  the  stores  of  Sulpiciua 

A  cask  shall  elicit,  of  potency  rare 
To  endow  with  fresh  hopes,  dewy-bright  and  deli- 
cious, 

And  wash  from  our  hearts  every  cobweb  of  care. 

If  you  M  dip  in  such  joys,  come  —  the  better,  the 
quicker !  — 

But  remember  the  fee  —  for  it  suits  not  my  ends, 
To  let  you  make  havoc,  scot-free,  with  my  liquor, 
As  though  I  were  one  of  your  heavy-pursed 
friends. 

To  the  winds  with  base  lucre  and  pale  melan- 
choly !  — 

In  the  flames  of  the  pyre  these,  alas !  will  be  vain, 
Mix  your  sage  ruminations  with  glimpses  of  folly,  — 
'T  is  delightful  at  times  to  be  somewhat  insane  I 


ODE  XIII.     TO  LYCE. 


ODE  XIII. 

TO  LYCft. 

LYcfc,  the  gods  have  heard  my  prayer, 
The  gods  have  heard  your  ill-used  lover, 

You  still  would  be  thought  both  young  and  fair, 
But  you  Ve  lost  your  looks,  and  your  hey-day's 
over: 

You  may  tipsily  wanton,  and  quaver,  and  trill, 
But  the  love  you  would  waken  will  slumber  on  still. 

In  the  dimples  of  Chia's  fair  cheek  he  lies, 
Chia  that  lilts  to  her  lyre  so  sweetly ; 

From  crab-trees  insipid  and  old  he  flies, 

And  you,  Lyce,  you  he  forswears  completely ; 

For  your  teeth  don't  keep,  and  your  wrinkles  are 
deep, 

And  your  forehead  is  snow  capp'd,  and  rugged,  and 
steep. 

Not  purple  of  Cos,  nor  gems  star-bright, 

Can  recall  the  days  that  are  gone  and  going ; 

O,  where  is  the  bloom  and  the  smile  of  light, 
And  the  step  of  grace,  self-poised  and  flowing  ? 

Of  her,  who  my  soul  of  itself  bereft, 

Who  fired  all  with  passion,  ah,  what  is  left  ? 


232 


ODE  XIII.     TO  LYCE. 


Thou  to  Cinara  next  for  charm  of  face. 

And  love-luring  wiles  on  my  heart  wert  graven ; 

But  Cinara  died  in  her  youth's  fresh  grace, 
Whilst  thou  art  like  to  outlive  the  raven, 

Dying  down,  a  spent  torch,  into  ashes  and  smoke, 

The  butt  of  each  roystering  youngster's  joke ! 


ODE  XIV.     TO  AUGUSTUS.  233 


ODE  XIV. 

TO  AUGUSTUS. 

How  shall  the  Fathers,  how 
Shall  the  Quiritians,  O  Augustus,  now, 
Intent  their  honours  in  no  niggard  wise 
Upon  thee  to  amass, 
By  storied  scroll,  or  monumental  brass 
Thy  virtues  eternise  ? 

O  thou  who  art,  wherever  shines  the  sun 

On  lands  where  man  a  dwelling-place  hath  woii, 

Of  princes  greatest  far, 
Thee  the  Vindelici,  who  ever  spurn'd 
Our  Latian  rule,  of  late  have  learn'd 

To  know  supreme  in  war ! 

For 't  was  with  soldiers  thou  hadst  form'd, 

That  Drusus,  greatly  resolute, 
On  many  a  hard-won  field  o'erthrew  the  wild 

Genaunians,  and  the  Brenni  fleet  of  foot, 
And  all  their  towering  strongholds  storm'd. 

On  Alps  tremendous  piled. 

Anon  to  deadliest  fight 

The  elder  Nero  press'd, 
And,  by  auspicious  omens  bless'd, 
Scattered  the  giant  Rhastian  hordes  in  flight. 

Himself,  that  glorious  day, 

The  foremost  in  the  fray, 


234 


ODE  XIV.     TO  AUGUSTUS. 


With  havoc  dire  did  he 
O'erwhelm  that  banded  crowd 
Of  hearts  in  stern  devotion  vow'd 

To  die  or  to  be  free  ! 
Like  Auster,  lashing  into  ire 

The  tameless  ocean-waves,  when  through 
The  driving  rack  the  Pleiad  choir 

Flash  suddenly  in  view, 
So.  furiously  he  dash'd 

Upon  his  serried  foes, 

And  where  their  balefires  thickest  rose, 
With  foaming  war-steed  crash'd. 

As  bull-shaped  Aufidus,  who  laves 
Apulian  Daunus'  realm, 
Is  whirl'd  along,  when  o'er  his  banks 
He  eddies  and  he  raves, 
Designing  to  o'erwhelm 
The  cultured  fields  with  deluge  and  dismay, 
So  Claudius  swept  the  iron  ranks 
Of  the  barbarian  host, 
And  where  from  van  to  rear  he  clove  his  way, 
Along  his  track  the  mangled  foemen  lay, 

Nor  did  one  squadron  lost 
The  lustre  dim  of  that  victorious  fray. 

But  thine  the  legions  were,  and  thine 
The  counsels,  and  the  auspices  divine, 
For  on  the  self-same  day, 
•^That  suppliant  Alexandria  had  flung 

Her  port  and  empty  palace  wide  to  thee, 
Did  Fortune,  who  since  then  through  lustres  three 
Had  to  thy  banners  smiling  clung, 
Bring  our  long  wars  to  a  triumphant  close, 

And  for  thee  proudly  claim 
The  honour  long  desired,  the  glorious  fame 

Of  countless  vanquish'd  foes, 
And  vanquish'd  empires  bow'd  in  homage  to  thy 
sway ! 


ODE  XIV.     TO  AUGUSTUS.  235 


Thee  the  Cantabrian,  unsubdued  till  now, 
The  Mede,  the  Indian,  —  thee 
The  Scythian  roaming  free, 

Unwedded  to  a  home, 
With  wondering  awe  obey, 

O  mighty  Csesar,  thou 
Of  Italy  and  sovereign  Rome 
The  present  shield,  the  guardian,  and  the  stay  I 
Thee  Nile,  who  hides  from  mortal  eyes 

The  springs  where  he  doth  rise, 
Thee  Ister,  arrowy  Tigris  thee, 
Thee,  too,  the  monster-spawning  sea, 
Which  round  far  Britain's  islands  breaks  in  foam, 
Thee  Gallia,  whom  no  form  of  death  alarms, 
Iberia  thee,  through  all  her  swarms 

Of  rugged  warriors,  hears  ; 
Thee  the  Sicambrian,  who 
Delights  in  carnage,  too, 
Now  laying  down  his  arms 
Submissively  reveres ! 


ODE  XV.     TO  AUGUSTUS. 


ODE  XV. 

TO  AUGUSTUS. 

To  vanquish'd  town  and  battle  fray 
I  wish'd  to  dedicate  my  lay, 
When  Phoebus  smote  his  lyre,  and  sang, 
And  in  his  strain  this  warning  rang, 
"  Spread  not  your  tiny  sails  to  sweep 
The  surges  of  the  Tyrrhene  deep ! " 

Thy  era,  Caesar,  which  doth  bless 
Our  plains  anew  with  fruitfulness, 
Back  to  our  native  skies  hath  borne 
Our  standards  from  the  temples  torn 
Of  haughty  Parthia,  and  once  more, 
The  hurricane  of  warfare  o'er, 
Hath  closed  Quirinian  Janus'  fane, 
On  lawless  license  cast  a  rein, 
And,  purging  all  the  land  from  crime, 
Recall'd  the  arts  of  olden  time  ; 
Those  arts,  by  which  the  name  and  power 
Of  Italy  grew  hour  by  hour, 
And  Rome's  renown  and  grandeur  spread 
To  sunrise  from  Sol's  western  bed. 

While  Caesar  rules,  no  civil  jar, 
Nor  violence  our  ease  shall  mar, 
Nor  rage,  which  swords  for  carnage  whets, 
And  feuds  'twixt  hapless  towns  begets. 


ODE  XV.     TO  AUGUSTUS. 


237 


The  Julian  Edicts  who  shall  break  ? 
Not  they,  who  in  the  Danube  slake 
Their  thirst,  nor  Serican,  nor  Gete, 
Nor  Persian,  practised  in  deceit. 
Nor  all  the  ruthless  tribes,  beside 
The  Danube's  darkly-rolling  tide. 

And  we,  on  working  days  and  all 
Our  days  of  feast  and  festival, 
Shall  with  our  wives  and  children  there, 
Approaching  first  the  gods  in  pray'r, 
Whilst  jovial  Bacchus'  gifts  we  pour, 
Sing,  as  our  fathers  sang  of  yore, 
To  Lybian  flutes,  which  answer  round, 
Of  chiefs  for  mighty  worth  renown'd, 
Of  Troy,  Anchises,  and  the  line 
Of  Veous  evermore  benign ! 


THE  EPODES. 


EPODJB 


TO  MAECENAS. 

If  thou  in  thy  Liburnians  go 
Amid  the  bulwark'd  galleys  of  the  foe, 

Resolved,  my  friend  Maecenas,  there 
All  Caesar's  dangers  as  thine  own  to  share, 

What  shall  we  do,  whose  life  is  gay 
Whilst  thou  art  here,  but  sad  with  thee  away  ? 

Obedient  to  thy  will,  shall  we 
Seek  ease,  not  sweet,  unless  'tis  shared  by  thee  ? 

Or  shall  we  with  such  spirit  share 
Thy  toils,  as  men  of  gallant  heart  should  bear  ? 

Bear  them  we  will ;  and  Alpine  peak 
Scale  by  thy  side,  or  Caucasus  the  bleak ; 

Or  follow  thee  with  dauntless  breast 
Into  the  farthest  ocean  of  the  West. 

And  shouldst  thou  ask,  how  I  could  aid 
Thy  task,  unwarlike  I,  and  feebly  made  ? 

Near  thee  my  fears,  I  answer,  would 
Be  less,  than  did  I  absent  o'er  them  brood  ; 

As  of  her  young,  if  they  were  left, 
The  bird  more  dreads  by  snakes  to  be  bereft, 

Than  if  she  brooded  on  her  nest, 
Although  she  could  not  thus  their  doom  arrest. 

Gladly,  in  hopes  your  grace  to  gain, 
I  '11  share  in  this  or  any  fresh  campaign  ! 

11  p 


242 


EPODE  I.     TO  MAECENAS. 


Not,  trust  me,  that  more  oxen  may, 
Yoked  in  my  ploughshares,  turn  the  yielding  clay, 

Nor  that,  to  'scape  midsummer's  heat, 
My  herds  may  to  Lucanian  pastures  sweet 

From  my  Calabrian  meadows  change  ; 
Nor  I  erect  upon  the  sunny  range 

Of  Tusculum,  by  Circe's  walls, 
A  gorgeous  villa's  far-seen  marble  halls ! 

Enough  and  more  thy  bounty  has 
Bestow'd  on  me  ;  I  care  not  to  amass 

Wealth  either,  like  old  Chremes  in  the  play, 
To  hide  in  earth,  or  fool,  like  spendthrift  heir,  away ! 


EPODE  II.  ALPHIUS. 


243 


EPODE  II. 
ALPHIUS. 

Happy  the  man,  in  busy  schemes  unskhTd, 
Who,  living  simply,  like  our  sires  of  old, 

Tills  the  few  acres,  which  his  father  till'd, 
Vex'd  by  no  thoughts  of  usury  or  gold ; 

The  shrilling  clarion  ne'er  his  slumber  mars, 
Nor  quails  he  at  the  howl  of  angry  seas ; 

He  shuns  the  forum,  with  its  wordy  jars, 

Nor  at  a  great  man's  door  consents  to  freeze. 

The  tender  vine-shoots,  budding  into  life, 
He  with  the  stately  poplar-tree  doth  wed, 

Lopping  the  fruitless  branches  with  his  knife  ; 
And  grafting  shoots  of  promise  in  their  stead ; 

Or  in  some  valley,  up  among  the  hills, 

Watches  his  wandering  herds  of  lowing  kine, 

Or  fragrant  jars  with  liquid  honey  fills, 
Or  shears  his  silly  sheep  in  sunny  shine ; 

Or  when  Autumnus  o'er  the  smiling  land 
Lifts  up  his  head  with  rosy  apples  crowned, 

Joyful  he  plucks  the  pears,  which  erst  his  hand 
GrafPd  on  the  stem  they're  weighing  to  the 
ground ; 


244 


EPODE  II.  ALPHIUS. 


Plucks  grapes  in  noble  clusters  purple-dyed, 
A  gift  for  thee,  Priapus,  and  for  thee, 

Father  Sylvanus,  where  thou  dost  preside. 
Warding  his  bounds  beneath  thy  sacred  tree. 

Now  he  may  stretch  his  careless  limbs  to  rest, 
Where  some  old  ilex  spreads  its  sacred  roof ; 

Now  in  the  sunshine  lie,  as  likes  him  best, 
On  grassy  turf  of  close  elastic  woof. 

And  streams  the  while  glide  on  with  murmurs  low. 

And  birds  are  singing  'mong  the  thickets  deep, 
And  fountains  babble,  sparkling  as  they  flow, 

And  with  their  noise  invite  to  gentle  sleep. 

But  when  grim  winter  comes,  and  o'er  his  grounds 
Scatters  its  biting  snows  with  angry  roar, 

He  takes  the  field,  and  with  a  cry  of  hounds 
Hunts  down  into  the  toils  the  foaming  boar  ; 

Or  seeks  the  thrush,  poor  starveling,  to  ensnare, 
In  filmy  net  with  bait  delusive  stored, 

Entraps  the  travelPd  crane,  and  timorous  hare, 
Rare  dainties  these  to  glad  his  frugal  board. 

Who  amid  joys  like  these  would  not  forget 
The  pangs  which  love  to  all  its  victims  bears, 

The  fever  of  the  brain,  the  ceaseless  fret, 
And  all  the  heart's  lamentings  and  despairs  ? 

But  if  a  chaste  and  blooming  wife,  beside, 

His  cheerful  home  with  sweet  young  blossoms  fills, 

Like  some  stout  Sabine,  or  the  sunburnt  bride 
Of  the  lithe  peasant  of  the  Apulian  hills, 

Who  piles  the  hearth  with  logs  well  dried  and  old 
Against  the  coming  of  her  wearied  lord, 

And,  when  at  eve  the  cattle  seek  the  fold, 
Drains  their  full  udders  of  the  milky  hoard ; 


EPODE  II.  ALPHIUS. 


245 


And  bringing  forth  from  her  well-tended  store 
A  jar  of  wine,  the  vintage  of  the  year, 

Spreads  an  unpurchased  feast,  —  oh  then,  not  more 
Could  choicest  Lucrine  oysters  give  me  cheer, 

Or  the  rich  turbot,  or  the  dainty  char, 
If  ever  to  our  bays  the  winter's  blast 

Should  drive  them  in  its  fury  from  afar ; 
Nor  were  to  me  a  welcomer  repast 

The  Afric  hen  or  the  Ionic  snipe, 

Than  olives  newly  gathered  from  the  tree, 

That  hangs  abroad  its  clusters  rich  and  ripe, 
Or  sorrel,  that  doth  love  the  pleasant  lea, 

Or  mallows  wholesome  for  the  body's  need, 
Or  lamb  foredoom'd  upon  some  festal  day 

In  offering  to  the  guardian  gods  to  bleed, 

Or  kidling  which  the  wolf  hath  mark'd  for  prey. 

What  joy,  amidst  such  feasts,  to  see  the  sheep, 
Full  of  the  pasture,  hurrying  homewards  come, 

To  see  the  wearied  oxen,  as  they  creep, 

Dragging  the  upturn'd  ploughshare  slowly  home 

Or,  ranged  around  the  bright  and  blazing  hearth, 
To  see  the  hinds,  a  house's  surest  wealth, 

Beguile  the  evening  with  their  simple  mirth, 
And  all  the  cheerfulness  of  rosy  health  ! 

Thus  spake  the  miser  Alphius ;  and,  bent 
Upon  a  country  life,  called  in  amain 

The  money  he  at  usury  had  lent ; 

But  ere  the  month  was  out,  't  was  lent  again. 


246 


EPODE  III.     TO  MAECENAS. 


EP ODE  III. 

TO  MAECENAS. 

If  his  old  father's  throat  any  impious  sinner 
Has  cut  with  unnatural  hand  to  the  bone, 
Give  him  garlic,  more  noxious  than  hemlock,  at 
dinner ; 

Ye  gods  !  The  strong  stomachs  that  reapers  must 
own ! 

With  what  poison  is  this,  that  my  vitals  are  heated  ? 

By  viper's  blood  —  certes,  it  cannot  be  less  — 
Stew'd  into  the  potherbs,  can  I  have  been  cheated  ? 

Or  Canidia,  did  she  cook  the  damnable  mess  ? 

When  Medea  was  smit  by  the  handsome  sea-rover, 
Who  in  beauty  outshone  all  his  Argonaut  band, 

This  mixture  she  took  to  lard  J ason  all  over, 

And  so  tamed  the  fire-breathing  bulls  to  his  hand. 

With  this  her  fell  presents  she  died  and  infected, 
On  his  innocent  leman  avenging  the  slight 

Of  her  terrible  beauty,  forsaken,  neglected, 

And  then  on  her  car,  dragon-wafted,  took  flight. 

Never  star  on  Apulia,  the  thirsty  and  arid, 
Exhaled  a  more  baleful  or  pestilent  dew, 

And  the  gift  which,  invincible  Hercules  carried, 
Burn'd  not  to  his  bones  more  remorselessly  through. 


EPOBE  in.     TO  MAECENAS. 


247 


Should  you  e'er  long  again  for  such  relish  as  this  is, 

Devoutly  I  '11  pray,  friend  Maecenas,  1  vow, 
With  her  hand  that  your  mistress  arrest  all  your 
kisses, 

And  lie  as  far  off  as  the  couch  will  allow. 


EPODE  IV.     TO  MENAS. 


EPODE  IV. 

TO  MENAS. 

Such  hate  as  nature  meant  to  be 
'Twixt  lamb  and  wolf  feel  I  for  thee, 
Whose  hide  by  Spanish  scourge  is  tann'd, 
And  legs  still  bear  the  fetter's  brand ! 
Though  of  your  gold  you  strut  so  vain, 
Wealth  cannot  change  the  knave  in  grain. 
How  !  See  you  not,  when  striding  down 
The  Via  Sacra  in  your  gown 
Good  six  ells  wide,  the  passers  there 
Turn  on  you  with  indignant  stare  ? 
"  This  wretch,"  such  jibes  your  ear  invade, 
"  By  the  triumvir's  scourges  flay'd, 
Till  even  the  crier  shirk'd  his  toil, 
Some  thousand  acres  ploughs  of  soil 
Falernian,  and  with  his  nags 
Wears  out  the  Appian  highway's  flags ; 
Nay  on  the  foremost  seats,  despite 
Of  Otho,  sits  and  apes  the  knight. 
What  boots  it  to  despatch  a  fleet 
So  large,  so  heavy,  so  complete 
Against  a  gang  of  rascal  knaves, 
Thieves,  corsairs,  buccaniers,  and  slaves, 
If  villain  of  such  vulgar  breed 
Is  in  the  foremost  rank  to  lead  ?  " 


EPODE  V.     THE  WITCHES'  ORGY.  249 


EP ODE  V. 

THE  WITCHES'  ORGY. 

"  What,  O  ye  gods,  who  from  the  sky 
Rule  earth  and  human  destiny, 
What  means  this  coil  ?    And  wherefore  be 
These  cruel  looks  all  bent  on  me  ? 
Thee  by  thy  children  I  conjure, 
If  at  their  birth  Lucina  pure 
Stood  by  ;  thee  by  this  vain  array 
Of  purple,  thee  by  Jove  I  pray, 
Who  views  with  anger  deeds  so  foul, 
Why  thus  on  me  like  stepdame  scowl, 
Or  like  some  wild  beast,  that  doth  glare 
Upon  the  hunter  from  its  lair  ?  " 

As  thus  the  boy  in  wild  distress, 
BewaiFd  of  bulla  stripp'd  and  dress,  — 
So  fair,  that  ruthless  breasts  of  Thrace 
Had  melted  to  behold  his  face,  — 
Canidia,  with  dishevell'd  hair, 
And  short  crisp  vipers  coiling  there, 
Beside  a  fire  of  Colchos  stands, 
And  her  attendant  hags  commands, 
To  feed  the  flames  with  fig-trees  torn 
Erom  dead  men's  sepulchres  forlorn, 
With  dismal  cypress,  eggs  rubb'd  o'er 
With  filthy  toads'  envenom'd  gore, 
With  screech-owls'  plumes,  and  herbs  of  bane, 
From  far  Iolchos  fetch'd  and  Spain, 
11* 


250         EPODE  V.     THE  WITCHES*  ORGY. 


And  fleshless  bones  by  beldam  witch 
Snatch'd  from  the  jaws  of  famish'd  bitch. 
And  Sagana,  the  while,  with  gown 
Tuck'd  to  the  knees,  stalks  up  and  down, 
Sprinkling  in  room  and  hall  and  stair 
Her  magic  hell-drops,  with  her  hair 
Bristling  on  end,  like  furious  boar, 
Or  some  sea-urchin  wash'd  on  shore ; 
Whilst  Yeia,  by  remorse  unstay'd, 
Groans  at  her  toil,  as  she  with  spade 
That  flags  not  digs  a  pit,  wherein 
The  boy  imbedded  to  the  chin, 
With  nothing  seen  save  head  and  throat, 
Like  those  who  in  the  water  float, 
Shall  dainties  see  before  him  set, 
A  maddening  appetite  to  whet, 
Then  snatch'd  away  before  his  eyes, 
Till  famish'd  in  despair  he  dies ; 
That  when  his  glazing  eyeballs  should 
Have  closed  on  the  untasted  food, 
His  sapless  marrow  and  dry  spleen 
May  drug  a  philtre-draught  obscene. 
Nor  were  these  all  the  hideous  crew, 
But  Ariminian  Folia,  too, 
Who  with  insatiate  lewdness  swells, 
And  drags  by  her  Thessalian  spells 
The  moon  and  stars  down  from  the  sky, 
Ease-loving  Naples'  tows,  was  by ; 
And  every  hamlet  round  about 
Declares  she  was,  beyond  a  doubt. 

Now  forth  the  fierce  Canidia  sprang, 
And  still  she  gnaw'd  with  rotten  fang 
Her  long  sharp  unpared  thumb-nail.  What 
Then  said  she  ?  Yea,  what  said  she  not  ? 

"  O  Night  and  Dian,  who  with  true 
And  friendly  eyes  my  purpose  view, 


EPODE  V.     THE  WITCHES*  ORGY.  251 


And  guardian  silence  keep,  whilst  I 

My  secret  orgies  safely  ply, 

Assist  me  now,  now  on  my  foes 

With  all  your  wrath  celestial  close  ! 

Whilst,  stretch'd  in  soothing  sleep,  amid 

Their  forests  grim  the  beasts  lie  hid, 

May  all  Suburra's  mongrels  bark 

At  yon  old  wretch,  who  through  the  dark 

Doth  to  his  lewd  encounters  crawl, 

And  on  him  draw  the  jeers  of  all ! 

He 's  with  an  ointment  smear'd,  that  is 

My  masterpiece.    But  what  is  this  ? 

Why,  why  should  poisons  brew'd  by  me 

Less  potent  than  Medea's  be, 

By  which,  for  love  betray'd,  beguiled, 

On  mighty  Creon's  haughty  child 

She  wreak'd  her  vengeance  sure  and  swift, 

And  vanish'd,  when  the  robe,  her  gift, 

In  deadliest  venom  steep'd  and  dyed, 

Swept  off  in  flame  the  new-made  bride  ? 

No  herb  there  is,  nor  root  in  spot 

However  wild,  that  I  have  not ; 

Yet  every  common  harlot's  bed 

Seems  with  some  rare  Nepenthe  spread, 

For  there  he  lies  in  swinish  drowse, 

Of  me  oblivious,  and  his  vows ! 

He  is,  aha  !  protected  well 

By  some  more  skilful  witch's  spell ! 

But,  Varus,  thou,  (doom'd  soon  to  know 

The  rack  of  many  a  pain  and  woe !) 

By  potions  never  used  before 

Shalt  to  my  feet  be  brought  once  more. 

And 't  is  no  Marsian  charm  shall  be 

The  spell  that  brings  thee  back  to  me  ! 

A  draught  I  '11  brew  more  strong,  more  sure, 

Thy  wandering  appetite  to  cure ; 

And  sooner  'neath  the  sea  the  sky 

Shall  sink,  and  earth  upon  them  lie, 

Than  thou  not  burn  with  fierce  desire 

For  me,  like  pitch  in  sooty  fire  ! " 


EPODE  V.     THE  WITCHES'  ORGT. 

On  this  the  boy  by  gentle  tones 
No  more  essay'd  to  move  the  crones, 
But  wildly  forth  with  frenzied  tongue 
These  curses  Thyestean  flung. 
*'  Your  sorceries,  and  spells,  and  charms 
To  man  may  compass  deadly  harms, 
But  heaven's  great  law  of  Wrong  and  Right 
Will  never  bend  before  their  might. 
My  curse  shall  haunt  you,  and  my  hate 
No  victim's  blood  shall  expiate. 
But  when  at  your  behests  I  die, 
Like  Fury  of  the  Night  will  I 
From  Hades  come,  a  phantom  sprite,  — 
Such  is  the  Manes'  awful  might,  — 
With  crooked  nails  your  cheeks  I  '11  tear, 
And,  squatting  on  your  bosoms,  scare 
With  hideous  fears  your  sleep  away  ! 
Then  shall  the  mob,  some  future  day, 
Pelt  you  from  street  to  street  with  stones, 
Till  falling  dead,  ye  filthy  crones, 
The  dogs  and  wolves,  and  carrion  fowl, 
That  make  on  Esquiline  their  prowl, 
In  banquet  horrible  and  grim 
Shall  tear  your  bodies  limb  from  limb. 
Nor  shall  my  parents  fail  to  see 
That  sight,  —  alas,  surviving  me  !  " 


EPODE  VI.     TO  CASSIUS  SEVERUS.  253 


EP  ODE  VI. 

TO  CASSIUS  SEVERUS. 

Vile  cur,  why  will  you  late  and  soon 

At  honest  people  fly  ? 
You,  you,  the  veriest  poltroon 

Whene'er  a  wolf  comes  by  ! 

Come  on,  and  if  your  stomach  be 

So  ravenous  for  fight, 
I 'm  ready  !    Try  your  teeth  on  me, 

You  '11  find  that  I  can  bite. 

For  like  Molossian  mastiff  stout, 

Or  dun  Laconian  hound, 
That  keeps  sure  ward,  and  sharp  look-out 

For  all  the  sheepfolds  round, 

Through  drifted  snows  with  ears  thrown  back 

I 'm  ready,  night  or  day, 
To  follow  fearless  on  the  track 

Of  every  beast  of  prey. 

But  you,  when  you  have  made  the  wood 
With  bark  and  bellowing  shake, 

If  any  thief  shall  fling  you  food, 
The  filthy  bribe  will  take. 


254        EPODE  VI.     TO  CASSIUS  SEVERUS. 

Beware,  beware !  Forevermore 
I  hold  such  knaves  in  scorn, 

And  bear,  their  wretched  sides  to  gore, 
A  sharp  and  ready  horn  ; 

Like  him,  whose  joys  Lycambes  dash'd, 

Defrauding  of  his  bride, 
Or  him,  who  with  his  satire  lash'd 

Old  Bupalus  till  he  died. 

What !  If  a  churl  shall  snap  at  me, 

And  pester  and  annoy, 
Shall  I  sit  down  contentedly, 

And  blubber  like  a  boy  ? 


EPODE  VII.     TO  THE  ROMAN  PEOPLE.  255 


EPODE  VII. 

TO  THE  ROMAN  PEOPLE. 

Ah,  whither  would  ye,  dyed  in  guilt,  thus  headlong 
rush  ?  Or  why 

Grasp  your  right  hands  the  battle-brands  so  recent- 
ly laid  by  ? 

Say,  can  it  be,  upon  the  sea,  or  yet  upon  the  shore, 
That  we  have  pour'd  too  sparingly  our  dearest  La- 
tian  gore  ? 

Not  that  yon  envious  Carthage  her  haughty  towers 
should  see 

To  flames  devouring  yielded  up  by  the  sons  of  Italy ; 

Or  that  the  Briton,  who  has  ne'er  confess'd  our 
prowess,  may 

Descend  all  gyved  and  manacled  along  the  Sa- 
cred Way, 

But  that  our  Rome,  in  answer  to  Parthia's  pray'r 
and  moan, 

Should  by  our  hands,  her  children's  hands,  be  crush'd 

and  overthrown  ? 
Alas  !  Alas  !  More  fell  is  ours  than  wolves'  or  lions' 

rage, 

For  they  at  least  upon  their  kind  no  war  unholy 
wage  ! 

What  power  impels  you  ?    Fury  blind,  or  demon 

that  would  wreak 
Revenge  for  your  blood-guiltiness  and  crimes  ?  Make 

answer !  Speak ! 


256     EPODE  VII.     TO  THE  ROMAN  PEOPLE. 

They  're  dumb,  and  with  an  ashy  hue  their  cheeks 

and  lips  are  dyed, 
And  stricken  through  with  conscious  guilt  their  souls 

are  stupefied ! 
'T  is  even  so ;   relentless  fates  the  sons  of  Rome 

pursue, 

And  his  dread  crime,  in  brother's  blood  who  did  his 
hands  imbrue ; 

For  still  for  vengeance  from  the  ground  calls  guilt- 
less Remus'  gore, 

By  his  descendants'  blood  to  be  atoned  for  ever- 
more \ 


EPODE  IX.     TO  MiECENAS. 


257 


EPODE  IX. 

TO  MAECENAS. 

When,  blest  Maecenas,  shall  we  twain 

Beneath  your  stately  roof  a  bowl 
Of  Csecuban  long-hoarded  drain, 

In  gladsomeness  of  soul, 
For  our  great  Caesar's  victories, 

Whilst,  as  our  cups  are  crown'd, 
Lyres  blend  their  Doric  melodies 

With  flutes'  Barbaric  sound  ? 

As  when  of  late  that  braggart  vain, 

The  self-styled  "  Son  of  Neptune  "  fled, 
And  far  from  the  Sicilian  main 

With  blazing  ships  he  sped  ; 
He,  who  on  Rome  had  vow'd  in  scorn 

The  manacles  to  bind, 
Which  he  from  faithless  serfs  had  torn 

To  kindred  baseness  kind  ! 

A  Boman  soldier,  (ne'er,  oh  ne'er, 

Posterity,  the  shame  avow !) 
A  woman's  slave,  her  arms  doth  bear, 

And  palisadoes  now ; 
To  wrinkled  eunuchs  crooks  the  knee, 

And  now  the  sun  beholds 
'Midst  warriors'  standards  flaunting  free 

The  vile  pavilion's  folds  ! 

Q 


258 


EPODE  IX.     TO  MAECENAS. 


Madden'd  to  view  this  sight  of  shame, 

Two  thousand  Gauls  their  horses  wheel'd 
And  wildly  shouting  Caesar's  name, 

Deserted  on  the  field  ; 
Whilst  steering  leftwise  o'er  the  sea 

The  foemen's  broken  fleet 
Into  the  sheltering  haven  flee 

In  pitiful  retreat. 

Ho,  Triumph  !    Wherefore  stay  ye  here 

The  unbroke  steers,  the  golden  cars  ? 
Ho !  never  brought  ye  back  his  peer 

From  the  Jugurthine  wars  ! 
Nor  mightier  was  the  chief  revered 

Of  that  old  famous  time, 
Who  in  the  wreck  of  Carthage  rear'd 

His  cenotaph  sublime  ! 

Vanquish'd  by  land  and  sea,  the  foe 

His  regal  robes  of  purple  shifts 
For  miserable  weeds  of  woe, 

And  o'er  the  wild-waves  drifts, 
Where  Crete  amid  the  ocean  stands 

With  cities  many  a  score, 
Or  where  o'er  Afric's  whirling  sands 

The  Southern  tempests  roar. 

Come,  boy,  and  ampler  goblets  crown 

With  Chian  or  with  Lesbian  wine, 
Or  else  our  qualmish  sickness  drown 

In  Caecuban  divine  ! 
Thus  let  us  lull  our  cares  and  sighs, 

Our  fears  that  will  not  sleep, 
Fcr  Caesar,  and  his  great  emprise, 

In  goblets  broad  and  deep  ! 


EPOBES  X.    AGAINST  If  JSVIUS.  SS3 


EP  ODE  X. 

AGAINST  M^VIUS. 

Foul  fall  the  day,  when  from  the  bay 

The  vessel  puts  to  sea, 
That  carries  Masvius  away, 

That  wretch  unsavoury  ! 

Mind,  Auster,  with  appalling  roar 
That  you  her  timbers  scourge ; 

Black  Eurus,  snap  each  rope  and  oar 
With  the  o'ertoppling  surge  ! 

Rise,  Aquilo,  as  when  the  far 
High  mountain-oaks  ye  rend  ; 

When  stern  Orion  sets,  no  star 
Its  friendly  lustre  lend  ! 

Seethe,  ocean,  as  when  Pallas  turn'd 
Her  wrath  from  blazing  Troy 

On  impious  Ajax'  bark,  and  spurn'd 
The  victors  in  their  joy ! 

I  see  them  now,  your  wretched  crew, 
All  toiling  might  and  main, 

And  you,  with  blue  and  deathlike  hue, 
Imploring  Jove  in  vain  ! 


9ftO  EPODE  X.    AGAINST  MJEVIU$» 


"  Mercy,  O  mercy  !    Spare  me,  pray !  * 

With  craven  moan  ye  call, 
When  founders  in  the  Ionian  bay 

Your  bark  before  the  squall : 

But  if  your  corpse  a  banquet  forms 

For  sea-birds,  I  '11  devote 
Unto  the  powers  that  rule  the  storms 

A  lamb  and  liquorish  goat. 


KPODE  XI.     THE  LOVER'S  CONFESSION.  261 


EPOIjE  XI. 

THE  LOVER'S  CONFESSION. 

0  Pettius  !  no  pleasure  have  I,  as  of  yore, 
In  scribbling  of  verse,  for  I 'm  smit  to  the  core 
By  love,  cruel  love,  who  delights,  false  deceiver, 
In  keeping  this  poor  heart  of  mine  in  a  fever. 
Three  winters  the  woods  of  their  honours  have 

stripp'd, 

Since  I  for  Inachia  cease  to  be  hypp'd. 
Good  heavens  !  I  can  feel  myself  blush  to  the  ears, 
When  I  think  how  I  drew  on  my  folly  the  sneers 
And  talk  of  the  town  ;  how,  at  parties,  my  stare 
Of  asinine  silence,  and  languishing  air, 
The  tempest  of  sighs  from  the  depths  of  my  breast, 
All  the  love-stricken  swain  to  my  comrades  confess'd. 
"  No  genius,"  I  groan'd,  whilst  you  kindly  condoled, 
"  If  poor,  has  the  ghost  of  a  chance  against  gold  ; 
But  if" —    Here  I  grew  more  confiding  and  plain, 
As  the  fumes  of  the  wine  mounted  up  to  my  brain  — 
<k  If  my  manhood  shall  rally,  and  fling  to  the  wind 
These  maudlin  regrets  which  enervate  the  mind, 
But  soothe  not  the  wound,  then  the  shame  of  defeat 
From  a  strife  so  unequal  shall  make  me  retreat " 
Thus,  stern  as  a  judge,  having  valiantly  said, 
Being  urged  by  yourself  to  go  home  to  my  bed, 

1  staggered  with  steps,  not  so  steady  as  free, 
To  a  door  which,  alas  !  shows  no  favour  to  me ; 


262    EPODE  XI.     THE  LOVER'S  CONFESSION. 


And  there  on  that  threshold  of  beauty  and  scorn, 
Heigho !  ray  poor  bones  lay  and  ached  till  the 
morn. 

Nov/  1  'm  ail  for  Lycisca  —  more  mincing  than  she 

Can  no  little  woman  in  daintiness  be  — 

A  love,  neither  counsel  can  cure,  nor  abuse, 

Though  I  feel,  that  with  me  it  is  playing  the  deuce, 

But  which  a  new  fancy  for  some  pretty  face, 

Or  tresses  of  loose-flowing  amber  may  chase. 


KtODE  XIII.     TO  HIS  FRIENDS. 


KPODE  XIII. 
TO  HIS  FRIENDS. 

With  storm  and  wrack  the  sky  is  black,  and  sieet 

and  dashing  rain 
With  all  the  gather'd  streams  of  heaven  are  deluging 
the  plain  ; 

Now  roars  the  sea,  the  forests  roar  with  the  shrill 
north-wind  of  Thrace, 

Then  let  us  snatch  the  hour,  my  friends,  the  hour 
that  flies  apace, 

Whilst  yet  the  bloom  is  on  our  cheeks,  and  right- 
fully we  may 

With  sono;  and  jest  and  jollity  keep  wrinkled  age 
at  bay ! 

Bring  forth  a  jar  of  lordly  wine,  whose  years  my 
own  can  mate, 

Its  ruby  juices  stain'd  the  vats  in  Torquatus'  consu- 
late ! 

No  word  of  anything  that 's  sad  ;  whate'er  may  be 

amiss  , 
The  Gods  belike  will  change  to  some  vicissitude  of 

bliss  ! 

With  Achaemenian  nard  bedew  our  locks,  and 
troubles  dire 

Subdue  to  rest  in  every  breast  with  the  Cyllenian 
lyre! 


264  EPODE  XIII.      TO  HIS  FRTENDS. 

So  to  his  peerless  pupil  once  the  noble  Centaur 
sang : 

"  Invincible,  yet  mortal,  who  from  Goddess  Thetis 
•sprang, 

Thee  waits  Assaracus's  realm,  where  arrowy  Simois 
glides, 

That  realm  which  chill  Scamander's  rill  with  scanty 

stream  divides, 
Whence  never  more  shalt  thou  return,  —  the  Parcse 

so  decree, 

Nor  shall  thy  blue-eyed  mother  home  again  e'er 
carry  thee. 

Then  chase  with  wine  and  song  divine  each  grief 

and  trouble  there, 
Tbe  sweetest,  surest  antidotes  of  beauty-marring 

care!'9 


EPODE  XIV.     TO  MAECENAS.  2G5 


EP ODE  XIV. 

TO  MAECENAS. 

Why  to  the  core  of  my  inmost  sense 
Doth  this  soul-palsying  torpor  creep, 

As  though  I  had  quaffed  to  the  lees  a  draught 
Charged  with  the  fumes  of  Lethean  sleep  ? 

0  gentle  Maecenas  !  you  kill  me,  when 

For  the  poem  I 've  promised  so  long  you  dun  me  ; 

1  have  tried  to  complete  it  again  and  again, 
But  in  vain,  for  the  ban  of  the  god  is  on  me. 

So  Bathyllus  of  Samos  fired,  they  tell, 

The  breast  of  the  Teian  bard,  who  often 
His  passion  bewail'd  on  the  hollow  shell, 

In  measures  he  stay'd  not  to  mould  and  soften, 
You,  too,  are  on  fire  ;  but  if  fair  thy  flame 

As  she  who  caused  Ilion  its  fateful  leaguer, 
Kejoice  in  thy  lot ;  I  am  pining,  O  shame  ! 

For  Phryne,  that  profligate  little  intriguer. 


266 


EPODE  XV.     TO  NiEERA. 


EPODE  XV. 

TO  N^ERA. 

'T  was  night !  —  let  me  recall  to  thee  that  night ! 

The  moon,  slow-climbing  the  unclouded  skyt 
Amid  the  lesser  stars  was  shining  bright, 

When  in  the  words  I  did  adjure  thee  by, 
Thou  with  thy  clinging  arms,  more  tightly  knit 

Around  me  than  the  ivy  clasps  the  oak, 
Didst  breathe  a  vow  -  mock  the  great  gods  with  it — 

A  vow  which,  false  one,  thou  hast  foully  broke ; 
That  while  the  raven'd  wolf  should  hunt  the  flocks, 

The  shipman's  foe,  Orion,  vex  the  sea, 
And  Zephyrs  lift  the  unshorn  Apollo's  locks, 

So  long  wouldst  thou  be  fond,  be  true  to  me  ! 

Yet  shall  thy  heart,  Nseera,  bleed  for  this, 

For  if  in  Flaccus  aught  of  man  remain, 
Give  thou  another  joys  that  once  were  his, 

Some  other  maid  more  true  shall  soothe  his  pain  ; 
Nor  think  again  to  lure  him  to  thy  heart! 

The  pang  once  felt,  his  love  is  past  recall ; 
And  thou,  more  favour'd  youth,  whoe'er  thou  art. 

Who  revel l'st  now  in  triumph  o'er  his  fall, 
Though  thou  be  rich  in  land  and  goldpn  store, 

In  lore  a  sage,  with  shape  framed  beguile, 
Thy  heart  shall  ache  when,  this  brief  fancy  o'er, 

She  seeks  a  new  love,  and  I  calmly  smile. 


EPODE  XVI.     TO  THE  ROMAN  PEOPLE.  267 


EP ODE  XVI. 

TO  THE  ROMAN  PEOPLE. 

Another  age  in  civil  wars  will  soon  be  spent  and 
worn, 

And  by  her  native  strength  our  Rome  be  wreck'd 

and  overborne, 
That  Rome,  the  Marsians  could  not  crush,  who 

border  on  our  lands, 
Nor  the  shock  of  threatening  Porsena  with  his 

Etruscan  bands, 
Nor  Capua's  strength  that  rivall'd  ours,  nor  Sparta- 

cus  the  stern, 
Nor  the  faithless  Allobrogian,  who  still  for  change 

doth  yearn. 

Ay,  what  Germania's  blue-eyed  youth  quell'd  not 

with  ruthless  sword, 
Nor  Hannibal  by  our  great  sires  detested  and  ab- 

horr'd, 

We  shall  destroy  with  impious  hands  imbrued  in 

brother's  gore, 
And  wild  beasts  of  the  wood  shall  range  our  native 

land  once  more. 
A  foreign  foe,  alas !  shall  tread  The  City's  ashes 

down, 

And  his  horse's  ringing  hoofs  shall  smite  her  places 
of  renown, 

And  the  bones  of  great  Quirinus,  now  religiously 
enshrined, 

Shall  be  flung  by  sacrilegious  hands  to  the  sunshine 
and  the  wind. 


208    EPODE  XVI.     TO  THE  ROMAN  PEOPLE. 

And  if  ye  all  from  ills  so  dire  ask,  how  yourselves 

to  free, 

Or  such  at  least  as  would  not  hold  your  lives  un- 
worthily, 

No  better  counsel  can  I  urge,  than  that  which  erst 
inspired 

The  stout  Phocseans  when  from  their  doom'd  city 
they  retired, 

Their  fields,  their  household  gods,  their  shrines  sur- 
rendering as  a  prey 

To  the  wild  boar  and  the  ravening  wolf ;  so  we  in 
our  dismay, 

Where'er  our  wandering  steps  may  chance  to  carry 
us  should  go, 

Or  wheresoe'er  across  the  seas  the  fitful  winds  may 
blow. 

How  think  ye  then  ?  If  better  course  none  offer, 

why  should  we 
Not  seize  the  happy  auspices,  and  boldly  put  to 

sea  ? 

But  let  us  swear  this  oath; — "Whene'er,  if  e'er 

shall  come  the  time, 
Rocks  upwards  from  the  deep  shall  float,  return 

shall  not  be  crime  ; 
Nor  we  be  loth  to  back  our  sails,  the  ports  of  home 

to  seek, 

When  the  waters  of  the  Po  shall  lave  Matinum's 
rifted  peak, 

Or  skyey  Apenninus  down  into  the  sea  be  rolPd, 
Or  wild  unnatural  desires  such  monstrous  revel 
hold, 

That  in  the  stag's  endearments  the  tigress  shall 
delight, 

And  the  turtle-dove  adulterate  with  the  falcon  and 
the  kite, 

That  unsuspicious  herds  no  more  shall  tawny  lions 
fear, 

And  the  he-goat,  smoothly  sleek  of  skin,  through 
the  briny  deep  career ! " 


EPODE  XVI.     TO  THE  ROMAN  PEOPLE.  269 

This  having  sworn,  and  what  beside  may  our  re- 
turning stay, 

Straight  let  us  all,  this  City's  doom'd  inhabitants, 
away, 

Or  those  that  rise  above  the  herd,  the  few  of  nobler 
soul ; 

The  craven  and  the  hopeless  here  on  their  ill-starr'd 

beds  may  loll. 
Ye  who  can 1  feel  and  act  like  men,  this  woman's 

wail  give  o'er, 
And  fly  to  regions  far  away  beyond  the  Etruscan 

shore ! 

The  circling  ocean  waits  us;  then  away,  where 

nature  smiles, 
To  those  fair  lands,  those  blissful  lands,  the  rich  and 

happy  Isles ! 

Where  Ceres  year  by  year  crowns  all  the  untill'd 

land  with  sheaves, 
And  the  vine  with  purple  clusters  droops,  unpruned 

of  all  her  leaves ; 
Where  the  olive  buds  and  burgeons,  to  its  promise 

ne'er  untrue, 
And  the  russet  fig  adorns  the  tree,  that  grafFshoot 

never  knew ! 

Where  honey  from  the  hollow  oaks  doth  ooze,  and 
crystal  rills 

Come  dancing  down  with  tinkling  feet  from  the 

sky-dividing  hills ; 
There  to  the  pails  the  she-goats  come,  without  a 

master's  word, 
And  home  with  udders  brimming  broad  returns  the 

friendly  herd ; 
There  round  the  fold  no  surly  bear  its  midnight 

prowl  doth  make, 
Nor  teems  the  rank  and  heaving  soil  with  the  adder 

and  the  snake ; 
There  no  contagion  smites  the  flocks,  nor  blight  of 

any  star 

With  fury  of  remorseless  heat  the  sweltering  herds 
doth  mar. 


270     EPODE  XVI.     TO  THE  ROMAN  PEOPLE. 

Nor  this  the  only  bliss  that  waits  us  there,  where 

drenching  rains 
By  watery  Eurus  swept  along  ne'er  devastate  the 

plains, 

Nor  are  the  swelling  seeds  burnt  up  within  the 
thirsty  clods, 

So  kindly  blends  the  seasons  there  the  King  of  all 
the  Gods. 

That  shore  the  Argonautic  bark's  stout  rowers  never 
gain'd, 

Nor  the  wily  she  of  Colchis  with  step  unchaste  pro- 
faned, 

The  sails  of  Sidon's  gallies  ne'er  were  wafted  to 
that  strand, 

Nor  ever  rested  on  its  slopes  Ulysses'  toilworn  band ; 
For  Jupiter,  when  he  with  brass  the  Golden  Age 
alloy'd, 

That  blissful  region  set  apart  by  the  good  to  be 
enjoy'd; 

With  brass  and  then  with  iron  he  the  ages  sear'd, 
but  ye 

Good  men  and  true  to  that  bright  home  arise  and 
follow  me ! 


EPODE  XVII.  RECANTATION  TO  CANIDIA. 


EPODE  XVII. 

HORACE'S  RECANTATION  TO  CANIDIA. 

Here  at  thy  feet  behold  me  now 
Thine  all-subduing  skill  avow, 
And  beg  of  thee  on  suppliant  knee, 
By  realms  of  dark  Persephone, 
By  Pian's  awful  might,  and  by 
Thy  books  of  charms  which  from  the  sky 
Can  drag  the  stars,  Canidia, 
To  put  thy  magic  sleights  away, 
Reverse  thy  whirling  wheel  amain, 
And  loose  the  spell  that  binds  my  brain  ! 
Even  Telephus  to  pity  won 
The  ocean-cradled  Thetis'  son, 
'Gainst  whom  his  Mysian  hosts  he  led, 
And  his  sharp-pointed  arrow  sped. 
The  man-destroying  Hector,  doom'd 
By  kites  and  dogs  to  be  consumed, 
Was  natheless  by  the  dames  of  Troy 
Embalm'd,  when,  mourning  for  his  hoy, 
King  Priam  left  his  city's  wall, 
At  stern  Achilles'  feet  to  fall. 
Ulysses'  stalwart  rowers,  too, 
Away  their  hide  of  bristles  threw 
At  Circe's  word,  and  donn'd  again 
The  shape,  the  voice,  the  soul  of  men. 
Enough  of  punishment,  I 'm  sure. 
Thou  hast  compell'd  me  to  endure* 


272    EPODE  XVII.    RECANTATION  TO  CANIDIA. 

Enough  and  more,  thou  being  dear 
To  pedlar  and  to  marinere  ! 
My  youth  has  fled,  my  rosy  hue 
•  Turn'd  to  a  wan  and  livid  blue ; 
Blanch'd  by  thy  mixtures  is  my  hair; 
No  respite  have  I  from  despair. 
The  days  and  nights,  they  wax  and  wane, 
But  bring  me  no  release  from  pain  ; 
Nor  can  I  ease,  howe'er  I  gasp , 
The  spasm  which  holds  me  in  its  grasp.' 
So  am  I  vanquish'd,  so  recant, 
Unlucky  wretch  !  my  creed,  and  grant 
That  Sabine  spells  can  vex  the  wit, 
And  heads  by  Mar  sic  charms  be  split. 
What  wouldst  thou  more  ?  O  earth !  O  sea ! 
Nor  even  Alcides  burned  like  me, 
With  Nessus'  venom'd  gore  imbued, 
Nor  iEtna  in  its  fiercest  mood ; 
For  till  my  flesh,  to  dust  calcined, 
Be  scatter'd  by  the  scornful  wind, 
Thou  glow'st  a  very  furnace  fire, 
Distilling  Colchian  poisons  dire ! 
When  will  this  end  ?    Or  what  may  be 
The  ransom,  that  shall  set  me  free  ? 
Speak  !  Let  the  fine  be  what  it  may, 
That  fine  most  rigidly  I  '11  pay. 
Demand  a  hundred  steers,  with  these 
Thy  wrath  I 'm  ready  to  appease  ! 
Or  wouldst  thou  rather  so  desire 
The  praise  of  the  inventive  lyre, 
Thou,  chaste  and  good,  shalt  range  afar 
The  spheres,  thyself  a  golden  star  ! 
Castor,  with  wrath  indignant  stung, 
And  Castor's  brother,  by  the  tongue, 
That  slander'd  Helena  the  fair, 
Yet  listen'd  to  the  slanderer's  pray'r, 
Forgave  the  bard  the  savage  slight, 
Forgave  him,  and  restor'd  his  sight. 
Then  drive,  for  so  thou  canst,  this  pain, 
This  wildering  frenzy  from  my  brain  ! 


EPODE  XVII.    RECANTATION  TO  CANIDIA.  273 

O  thou,  untainted  by  the  guile 
Of  parentage  depraved  and  vile, 
Thou,  who  dost  ne'er  in  haglike  wont, 
Among  the  tombs  of  paupers  hunt 
For  ashes  newly  laid  in  ground, 
Love-charms  and  philtres  to  compound, 
Thy  heart  is  gentle,  pure  thy  hands ; 
And  there  thy  Partumeius  stands, 
Reproof  to  all,  who  dare  presume 
With  barrenness  to  charge  thy  womb ; 
For  never  dame  more  sprightly  rose 
Or  lustier  from  childbed  throes ! 


CANIDIA'S  REPLY. 

Why  pour  your  prayers  to  heedless  ears  ? 
Not  rocks,  when  Winter's  blast  careers, 
Lash'd  by  the  angry  surf,  are  more 
Deaf  to  the  seaman  dash'd  on  shore ! 
What !  Think,  unpunish'd  to  deride, 
And  rudely  rend  the  veil  aside, 
That  shrouds  Cotytto's  murky  rites, 
And  love's,  unfetter'd  love's,  delights  ? 
And,  as  though  you  high-priest  might  be 
Of  Esquilinian  sorcery, 
Branding  my  name  with  ill  renown, 
Make  me  the  talk  of  all  the  town  ? 
Where  then  my  gain,  that  with  my  gold 
I  bribed  Pelignian  beldames  old, 
Or  master'd  by  their  aid  the  gift 
To  mingle  poisons  sure  and  swift  ? 
You'd  have  a  speedy  doom  ?    But  no, 
It  shall  be  lingering,  sharp,  and  slow. 
Your  life,  ungrateful  wretch  !  shall  be 
Spun  out  in  pain  and  misery, 

12*  R 


EPODE  XVII.     CANIDIA  S  REPLY. 


And  still  new  tortures,  woes,  and  pangs 
Shall  gripe  you  with  relentless  fangs  ! 
Yearns  Pelops'  perjured  sire  for  rest, 
Mock'd  by  the  show  of  meats  unblest, 
For  rest,  for  rest  Prometheus  cries, 
As  to  the  vulture  chain'd  he  lies, 
And  Sisyphus  his  rock  essays 
Up  to  the  mountain's  top  to  raise  ; 
Still  clings  the  curse,  for  Jove's  decree 
Forbids  them  ever  to  be  free. 
So  you  would  from  the  turret  leap, 
So  in  your  breast  the  dagger  steep, 
So,  in  disgust  with  life,  would  fain 
Go  hang  yourself,  —  but  all  in  vain  ! 
Then  comes  my  hour  of  triumph,  then 
I  '11  goad  you  till  you  writhe  again ; 
Then  shall  you  curse  the  evil  hour, 
You  made  a  mockery  of  my  power  ! 
Think  ye,  that  1  who  can  at  will 
Move  waxen  images  —  my  skill 
You,  curious  fool !  know  all  too  well  — 
That  I  who  can  by  mutter'd  spell 
The  moon  from  out  the  welkin  shake, 
The  dead  ev'n  from  their  ashes  wake, 
And  mix  the  chalice  to  inspire 
With  fierce  unquenchable  desire, 
Shall  my  so-potent  art  bemoan 
As  impotent  'gainst  thee  alone  ? 


THE  SECULAR  HYMN. 


TO  APOLLO  AND  DIANA. 


Phcebus,  and  Dian,  forest  queen, 
Heaven's  chiefest  light  sublime, 
Ye,  who  high-worshipp'd  evermore  have  been, 
And  shall  high-worshipp'd  be  forevermore, 

Fulfil  the  prayers,  which  at  this  sacred  time 
To  you  we  pour ; 
This  time,  when,  prompted  by  the  Sybil's  lays, 

Virgins  elect,  and  spotless  youths  unite 
To  the  Immortal  Gods  a  hymn  to  raise 

Who  in  the  seven-hilPd  City  take  delight ! 

Benignant  sun,  who  with  thy  car  of  flame 
Bring'st  on  the  day, 
And  takest  it  away, 
And  still  art  born  anew, 
Another,  yet  the  same, 
In  all  thy  wanderings  may'st  thou  nothing  view, 

That  mightier  is  than  Rome, 
The  empress  of  the  world,  our  mother,  and  our  home ! 

O  Hithyia,  of  our  matrons  be 

The  guardian  and  the  stay, 
And  as  thine  office  is,  unto  the  child 

Who  in  the  womb  hath  reach'd  maturity, 

Gently  unbar  the  way, 
Whether  Lucina  thou  wouldst  rather  be, 

Or  Genitalis  styled ! 


278 


TO  APOLLO  AND  DIANA. 


Our  children,  goddess,  rear  in  strength  and  health, 
And  with  thy  blessing  crown 

The  Senate's  late  decree, 
The  nuptial  law,  that  of  our  dearest  wealth 
The  fruitful  source  shalt  be,  — 
A  vigorous  race,  who  to  posterity 
Shall  hand  our  glory,  and  our  honours  down  ! 
So,  as  the  circling  years,  ten-times  eleven, 
Shall  bring  once  more  this  season  round, 

Once  more  our  hymns  shall  sound, 
Once  more  our  solemn  festival  be  given, 
Through  three  glad  days,  devoted  to  thy  rites, 
Three  joyous  days,  and  three  not  less  delightsome 
nights ! 

And  you,  ye  Sister  Fates, 
Who  truly  do  fulfil 
What  doom  soever,  by  your  breath  decreed, 

In  the  long  vista  of  the  future  waits, 
As  ye  have  ever  made  our  fortunes  speed, 
Be  gracious  to  us  still ! 

And  oh  !  may  Earth,  which  plenteous  increase  bears 
Of  fruits,  and  corn,  and  wine, 
A  stately  coronal  for  Ceres  twine 
Of  the  wheat's  golden  shocks, 
And  healthful  waters  and  salubrious  airs 
Nourish  the  yeanling  flocks ! 

Aside  thy  weapons  laid,  Apollo,  hear 
With  gracious  ear  serene - 
The  suppliant  youths,  who  now  entreat  thy  boon ! 
And  thou,  of  the  constellations  queen, 
Two-horned  Moon, 
To  the  young  maids  give  ear ! 

If  Rome  be  all  thy  work,  if  Trojan  bands 
Upon  the  Etruscan  shore  have  won  renown, 


TO  APOLLO  AND  DIANA. 


279 


That  chosen  remnant,  who  at  thy  commands 

Forsook  their  hearths,  and  homes,  and  native- 
town  ; 

If  all  unscathed  through  Ilion's  flames  they  sped 

By  sage  iLmeas  led, 
And  o'er  the  ocean-waves  in  safety  fled, 

Destined  from  him,  though  of  his  home  bereft, 
A  nobler  dower  to  take,  than  all  that  they  had  left  I 

Ye  powers  divine, 
Unto  our  docile  youth  give  morals  pure ! 

Ye  powers  divine, 
To  placid  age  give  peace, 
And  to  the  stock  of  Romulus  ensure 
Dominion  vast,  a  never  failing  line, 
And  in  all  noble  things  still  make  them  to  increase  ! 

And  oh  !  may  he  who  now 
To  you  with  milk-white  steers  uplifts  his  pray'r, 

Within  whose  veins  doth  flow 
Renown'd  Anchises'  blood,  and  Venus'  ever  fair, 

Be  still  in  war  supreme,  yet  still  the  foe 
His  sword  hath  humbled  spare  ! 

Now,  even  now  the  Mede 
Our  hosts  omnipotent  by  land  and  sea, 

And  Alban  axes  fears ;  the  Scythians,  late 

So  vaunting,  and  the  hordes  of  Ind  await, 
On  low  expectant  knee, 
What  terms  soe'er  we  may  be  minded  to  concede. 
Now  Faith,  and  Peace,  and  Honour,  and  the  old 

Primeval  Shame,  and  Worth  long  held  in  scorn, 
To  reappear  make  bold, 
And  blissful  Plenty,  with  her  teeming  horn, 

Doth  all  her  smiles  unfold. 

And  oh  !  may  He,  the  Seer  divine, 
God  of  the  fulgent  bow, 


280 


TO  APOLLO  AND  DIANA, 


Phoebus,  beloved  of  the  Muses  nine, 

Who  for  the  body  rack'd  and  worn  with  woo 

By  arts  remedial  finds  an  anodyne, 
If  he  with  no  unloving  eye  doth  view 

The  crested  heights  and  halls  of  Palatine, 

On  to  a  lustre  new 
Prolong  the  weal  of  Rome,  the  blest  Estate 
Of  Latium,  and  on  them,  long  ages  through, 
Still  growing  honours,  still  new  joys  accumulate  ! 

And  may  She,  too,  who  makes  her  haunt 
On  Aventine  and  Algidus  alway, 
May  She,  Diana,  grant 
The  pray'rs,  which  duly  here 
The  Fifteen  Men  upon  this  festal  day 

To  her  devoutly  send, 
And  to  the  youths'  pure  adjurations  lend 
No  unpropitious  ear ! 

Now  homeward  we  repair, 

Full  of  the  blessed  hope,  that  will  not  fail, 
That  Jove  and  all  the  Gods  have  heard  our  pray'r, 

And  with  approving  smiles  our  homage  hail,  — 
We  skilTd  in  choral  harmonies  to  raise 
The  hymn  to  Phoebus  and  Diana's  praise. 


NOTES  AND  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


NOTES  TO  THE  LIFE. 


Satire  6,  Book  L,  p.  8.  A  large  portion  of  this 
satire,  which  is  addressed  to  Maecenas,  throws  so 
much  light  upon  the  life  and  character  of  Horace, 
that  a  translation  of  it  from  line  45  to  the  close  is 
subjoined. 

Now  to  myself,  the  freedman's  son ,  come  ), 
Whom  ail  the  mob  of  gaping  fools  decry, 
Because,  forsooth,  I  am  a  freedman's  son ; 
My  sin  at  present  is,  that  I  have  won 
Thy  trust,  Maecenas  ;  once  in  this  it  lay, 
That  o'er  a  Roman  legion  I  bore  sway 
As  Tribune,  —  surely  faults  most  opposite ; 
For  though,  perchance,  a  man  with  justice  might 
Grudge  me  the  tribune's  honours,  why  should  he 
Be  jealous  of  the  favour  shewn  by  thee,  — 
Thee  who,  unsway'd  by  fawning  wiles,  art  known 
To  choose  thy  friends  for  honest  worth  alone  ? 
Lucky  I  will  not  call  myself,  as  though 
Thy  friendship  I  to  mere  good  fortune  owe. 
No  chance  it  was  secured  me  thy  regards ; 
But  Virgil  first,  that  best  of  friends  and  bards, 
And  then  kind  Varius  mentioned  what  I  was. 
Before  you  brought,  with  many  a  faltering  pause, 
Dropping  some  few  brief  words,  (for  bashfulness 
Robb'd  me  of  utterance,)  I  did  not  profess, 
That  I  was  sprung  of  lineage  old  and  great, 
Or  used  to  canter  round  my  own  estate, 


284 


NOTES  TO  THE  LIFE. 


On  Satureian  barb,  but  what  and  who 
I  am  as  plainly  told.    As  usual,  you 
Brief  answer  make  me.    I  retire,  and  then, 
Some  nine  months  after  summoning  me  again, 
You  bid  me  'mongst  your  friends  assume  a  place : 
And  proud  I  feel,  that  thus  I  won  thy  grace. 
Not  by  an  ancestry  long  known  to  fame, 
But  by  my  life,  and  heart  devoid  of  blame. 

Yet  if  some  trivial  faults,  and  these  but  few, 
My  nature,  else  not  much  amiss,  imbue, 
Just  as  you  wish  away,  yet  scarcely  blame, 
A  mole  or  two  upon  a  comely  frame  ; 
If  no  man  may  arraign  me  of  the  vice 
Of  lewdness,  meanness,  nor  of  avarice; 
If  pure  and  innocent  I  live,  and  dear 
To  those  I  love,  (self-praise  is  venial  here,) 
All  this  I  owe  my  father,  who,  though  poor, 
Lord  of  some  few  lean  acres,  and  no  more, 
Was  loth  to  send  me  to  the  village  school, 
Whereto  the  sons  of  men  of  mark  and  rule,  — 
Centurions,  and  the  like,  —  were  wont  to  swarm, 
With  slate  and  satchel  on  sinister  arm, 
And  the  poor  dole  of  scanty  pence  to  pay 
The  starveling  teacher  on  the  quarter  day ; 
But  boldly  took  me  when  a  boy  to  Rome, 
There  to  be  taught  all  arts,  that  grace  the  home 
Of  knight  and  senator.    To  see  my  dress, 
And  slaves  attending,  you'd  have  thought,  no  less 
Than  patrimonial  fortunes  old  and  great 
Had  furnish'd  forth  the  charges  of  my  state. 
When  with  my  tutors,  he  would  still  be  by, 
Nor  ever  let  me  wander  from  his  eye  ; 
And  in  a  word  he  kept  me  chaste  (and  this 
Is  virtue's  crown)  from  all  that  was  amiss, 
Nor  such  an  act  alone,  but  in  repute, 
Till  even  scandal's  tattling  voice  was  mute. 
No  dread  had  he,  that  men  might  taunt  or  jeer, 
Should  I,  some  future  day,  as  auctioneer, 
Or,  like  himself,  as  tax-collector  seek 
With  petty  vails  my  humble  means  to  eke 


NOTES  TO  THE  LIFE. 


285 


Nor  should  I  then  have  murmur'd.    Now  I  know, 

More  earnest  thanks,  and  loftier  praise  I  owe. 

Reason  must  fail  me,  ere  I  cease  to  own 

With  pride,  that  I  havesuch  a  father  known; 

Nor  shall  I  stoop  my  birth  to  vindicate, 

By  charging,  like  the  herd,  the  wrong  on  Fate, 

That  I  was  not  of  noble  lineage  sprung  : 

Far  other  creed  inspires  my  heart  and  tongue. 

For  now  should  Nature  bid  all  living  men 

Retrace  their  years,  and  live  them  o'er  again, 

Each  culling,  as  his  inclination  bent, 

His  parents  for  himself,  with  mine  content, 

I  would  not  choose,  whom  men  endow  as  great 

With  the  insignia  and  the  seats  of  state ; 

And,  though  I  seem'd  insane  to  vulgar  eyes, 

Thou  wouldst  perchance  esteem  me  truly  wise, 

In  thus  refusing  to  assume  the  care 

Of  irksome  state  I  was  unused  to  bear. 

For  then  a  larger  income  must  be  made, 
Men's  favour  courted,  and  their  whims  obey'd, 
Nor  could  I  then  indulge  a  lonely  mood, 
Away  from  town,  in  country  solitude, 
For  the  false  retinue  of  pseudo-friends, 
That  all  my  movements  servilely  attends. 
More  slaves  must  then  be  fed,  more  horses  too, 
And  chariots  bought.    Now  have  I  nought  to  do, 
If  I  would  even  to  Tarentum  ride, 
But  mount  my  bob-tail'd  mule,  my  wallets  tied 
Across  his  flanks,  which,  flapping  as  we  go, 
With  my  ungainly  ancles  to  and  fro, 
Work  his  unhappy  sides  a  world  of  weary  woe. 
Yet  who  shall  call  me  mean,  as  men  call  thee, 

0  Tillius,  when  they  oft  a  prsetor  see 

On  the  Tiburtine  Way  with  five  poor  knaves, 
Half-grown,  half-starved,  and  overweighted  slaves, 
Bearing,  to  save  your  charges  when  you  dine, 
A  travelling  kitchen,  and  ajar  of  wine. 
Illustrious  senator,  more  happy  far, 

1  live  than  you,  and  hosts  of  others  are ! 


286 


NOTES  TO  THE  LIFE, 


I  walk  alone,  by  mine  own  fancy  led, 

Enquire  the  price  of  potherbs  and  of  bread, 

The  circus  cross  to  see  its  tricks  and  fun, 

The  forum,  too,  at  times  near  set  of  sun ; 

With  other  fools  there  do  I  stand  and  gape 

Round  fortune-tellers'  stalls,  thence  home  escape 

To  a  plain  meal  of  pancakes,  pulse,  and  peas ; 

Three  young  boy-slaves  attend  on  me  with  these. 

Upon  a  slab  of  snow-white  marble  stand 

A  goblet,  and  two  beakers ;  near  at  hand, 

A  common  ewer,  patera,  and  bowl,  — 

Campania's  potteries  produced  the  whole. 

To  sleep  then  I,  unharass'd  by  the  fear, 

That  I  to-morrow  must  betimes  appear 

At  Marsyas'  base,  who  vows  he  cannot  brook 

Without  a  pang  the  Younger  Novius'  look. 

I  keep  my  couch  till  ten,  then  walk  a  while, 

Or  having  read  or  writ  what  may  beguile 

A  quiet  after  hour,  anoint  my  limbs 

With  oil,  not  such  as  filthy  Natta  skims 

From  lamps  defrauded  of  their  unctuous  fare. 

And  when  the  sunbeams,  grown  too  hot  to  bear, 

Warn  me  to  quit  the  field,  and  hand-ball  play, 

The  bath  takes  all  my  weariness  away. 

Then  having  lightly  dined,  just  to  appease 

The  sense  of  emptiness,  I  take  mine  ease, 

Enjoying  all  home's  simple  luxury. 

This  is  the  life  of  bard  unclogg'd,  like  me, 

By  stern  ambition's  miserable  weight, 

So  placed,  I  own  with  gratitude,  my  state 

Is  sweeter,  ay,  than  though  a  quaestor's  power 

From  sire  and  grandsires'  sires  had  been  my'dower. 


Even  in  ichat  may  be  assumed  to  be  Ms  earliest 
poems,  the  fire  of  genuine  passion  is  wanting,  p.  22. 
Horace's  exquisite  susceptibility  to  beauty  of  course 
subjected  him  to  many  transient  passions,  of  which 
traces  are  apparent  in  the  poems  here  more  partic- 


NOTES  TO  THE  LIFE. 


287 


ularly  referred  to,  But  even  in  these  it  is  quite 
clear  that  his  admiration,  though  it  may  preoccupy 
his  thoughts,  or  even  rob  him  of  his  sleep,  never 
elevates  him  out  of  himself.  It  suggests  no  images 
beyond  those  of  sensual  gratification  ;  it  involves  no 
sorrow  beyond  a  temporary  disappointment  soon  to 
be  solaced  elsewhere.    His  heart  is  untouched. 

Very  different  is  it  with  Catullus  and  other  Ro- 
man erotic  poets.  Their  mistresses  are  to  them 
both  mistresses  and  muses,  —  at  once  their  inspira- 
tion and  their  reward.  Loving  intensely,  and  with 
constancy,  their  fervour  animated  and  has  won 
immortality  for  their  song.  Had  they  not  loved 
deeply,  they  would  probably  never  have  written. 
Thus  Propertius  acknowledges  his  obligations  to  his 
mistress ;  — 

Quceritur  unde  milii  toties  scribuntur  amoves, 
Unde  mens  veniat  mollis  in  ore  liber  ? 

Non  mihi  Calliope,  non  hose  mihi  cantat  Apollo, 
Ingenium  nobis  ipsa  puella  fuit. 

Do  you  ask,  how  in  hues  ever  varied  and  glowing, 

Love  flashes  and  gleams  in  my  verses  so  oft, 
Or  would  you  discover  what  keeps  them  still  flowing 

In  honey-like  cadences  warbling  and  soft  ? 
It  is  not  Calliope  kindles  my  fancies, 

It  is  not  Apollo  that  wakens  my  lyre, 
But  my  girl,  that  illumines  my  brain  with  her  glances, 

And  hangs  on  my  lips,  till  she  tips  them  with  fire. 

Horace  has  no  such  acknowledgment  to  make. 
Song  was  not  to  him  the  medium  in  which  the 
throbbing  heart  of  imaginative  passion  found  relief. 
He  was  to  the  last  keenly  alive  to  the  charms  of 
the  sex ;  but  neither  in  his  youth  nor  riper  years 
were  they  his  inspiration. 

The  difference  between  the  poetry  of  passion 
and  fancy  can  scarcely  be  better  exemplified,  than 
by  contrasting  his  love  poems  with  those  of  Catullus, 


288 


NOTES  TO  THE  LIFE. 


of  which  Lesbia  is  the  theme.  Even,  if  we  did  not 
know,  that  the  latter  were  the  records  of  an  actual 
liaison,  the  unmistakable  sincerity  of  the  emotion 
which  they  breathe  would  place  the  fact  beyond  a 
doubt.  Catullus  manifestly  loved  this  woman  with 
all  his  heart.  She  became  false,  and  even  aban-  * 
doned  herself  to  the  lowest  licentiousness  ;  but  her 
hold  upon  his  affections,  even  when  esteem  was 
gone,  remained  the  same,  and  his  verses  pourtray 
with  touching  force  the  anguish  of  the  infatuated, 
heart,  which  clings  to  a  beloved  object,  of  whose 
worthlessness  it  is  convinced,  unable  to  dethrone  it 
from  the  supremacy,  which  yet  it  reluctantly  avows. 
They  reflect  the  various  phases  of  the  lover's  feel- 
ings with  the  liveliest  truth,  —  his  joys,  his  doubts, 
his  anguish,  his  self-contempt.  Let  the  reader,  for 
evidence  of  this,  glance  with  us  over  the  various 
poems,  which  have  made  his  Lesbia  immortal. 

She  is  introduced  to  us  playing  off  the  engaging 
but  tormenting  artifices  of  the  coquettish  beauty 
in  the  following  lines. 

Sparrow,  my  dear  lady's  joy, 
Who  with  thee  delights  to  toy, 
Thee  within  her  breast  to  fold, 
And  her  fair  forefinger  hold 
Out  for  thee  to  bite  its  tip, 
Whilst  I  sit  by  with  quivering  lip, 
And  she,  with  playful  arts  like  these, 
Affects  to  keep  a  bright-eyed  ease, 
And  hide  her  passion's  pleasing  pain, 
That  runs,  like  fire,  through  every  vein  I 
With  thee,  like  her,  I  fain  would  play, 
And  chase  my  bosom's  grief  away ; 
And  thou  shouldst  welcome  be  to  me, 
As  in  the  legend  old,  we  see, 
The  magic  apple  was  to  her, 
Whose  icy  heart  no  youth  could  stir,  — 
The  golden  fruit,  which  loosed  the  zone, 
And  bade  her  love's  dominion  own. 


NOTES  TO  THE  LIFE. 


289 


But  the  sparrow  dies,  and,  like  a  true  lover,  Ca- 
tullus thus  pens  a  woful  sonnet  on  the  occasion  :  — 

Loves  and  Graces,  mourn  with  me, 
Mourn,  fair  youths,  where'er  ye  be ! 
Dead  my  Lesbia's  sparrow  is, 
Sparrow,  that  was  all  her  bliss ; 
Than  her  very  eyes  more  dear,  — 
For  he  made  her  dainty  cheer, 
Knew  her  well,  as  any  maid 
Knows  her  mother ,  —  never  stray'd 
From  her  lap,  but  still  would  go 
Hopping  round  her  to  and  fro, 
And  to  her,  and  none  but  she, 
Piped  and  chirrup'd  prettily. 
Now  he  treads  that  gloomy  track, 
Whence  none  ever  may  come  back. 
Out  upon  you,  and  your  power, 
Which  all  fairest  things  devour 
Orcus'  gloomy  shades,  that  e'er 
"Ye  took  my  bird,  that  was  so  fair ! 
O,  vilely  done  !  O,  dismal  shades ! 
On  you  I  charge  it,  that  my  maid's 
Dear  little  eyes  are  swollen  and  red, 
With  weeping  for  her  darling  dead. 

Never  had  lady's  pet  a  cenotaph  like  this,  in 
which  the  triviality  of  the  theme  is  forgotten  in  the 
artistic  beauty  of  the  work.  Such  lines  could 
scarcely  fail  to  raise  him  high  in  favour  with  the 
distracted  beauty,  to  whom  he  could  now  address 
the  following  pleasant  admonition :  — 

Let  us  give  our  little  day 
All  to  love,  my  Lesbia, 
Heeding  not  the  precepts  sage, 
Nor  the  frowns  of  crabbed  age  ! 
When  the  sun  sets,  't  is  to  rise 
Brighter  in  the  morning  skies  ; 

13  & 


290 


NOTES  TO  THE  LIFE. 


But,  when  sets  our  little  light, 
We  must  sleep  in  endless  night. 
Give  me  then  a  thousand  kisses, 
Add  a  hundred  to  my  blisses, 
Then  a  thousand  more,  and  then 
Add  a  hundred  once  again. 
Crown  me  with  a  thousand  more, 
Give  a  hundred  as  before, 
Cease  not  then,  but  kiss  me  still, 
Adding  hundreds,  thousands,  till, 
Lost  in  exquisite  sensation, 
We  confound  all  calculation, 
And  no  envy  mar  our  blisses, 
Hearing  of  such  heaps  of  kisses  ! 

This  style  of  advice  has  been  a  mania  in  the 
poetical  world  ever  since.  Thus  our  own  Carew 
expands  the  first  part  of  the  theme. 

O  love  me  then,  and  now  begin  it, 
Let  me  not  lose  the  present  minute ; 
For  time  and  age  will  work  that  wrack, 
Which  time  or  age  shall  ne'er  call  back. 
The  snake  each  year  fresh  skin  resumes, 
And  eagles  change  their  aged  plumes ; 
The  faded  rose  each  spring  receives 
A  fresh  red  tincture  on  her  leaves ; 
But  if  your  beauties  once  decay, 
You  never  know  a  second  May. 
O  then  be  wise,  and  whilst  your  season 
Affords  you  days  for  sport,  do  reason  ; 
Spend  not  in  vain  your  life's  short  hour, 
But  crop  in  time  your  beauty's  flower, 
Which  will  away,  and  doth  together, 
Both  bud  and  fade,  both  blow  and  wither. 

Herrick  again  has  caught  up  the  latter  part  of 
Catullus's  strain  very  happily  in  the  following  lines. 

Ah,  my  Anthea,  must  my  heart  still  break  ? 
Love  makes  me  write  what  shame  forbids  to  speak. 


NOTES  TO  THE  LIFE. 


291 


Give  me  a  kiss,  and  to  that  kiss  a  score, 
Then  to  that  twenty  add  a  hundred  more  — 
A  thousand  to  that  hundred  —  so  kiss  on 
To  make  that  thousand  up  a  million, 
Treble  that  million,  and  when  that  is  done, 
Let 's  kiss  afresh  as  when  we  first  begun  ! 

But  hear  Catullus  again  upon  the  same  ever  inter- 
esting theme. 

Dost  thou,  Lesbia,  bid  me  say 

How  many  kisses  from  thy  lip 
I 'd  take,  ere  I  would  turn  away, 

And  of  its  sweets  no  longer  sip  ! 

Count  the  grains  of  sand  are  rolPd 

On  Cyrene's  spicy  plain, 
'Twixt  the  tomb  of  Battus  old, 

And  the  sweltering  Hammon's  fane. 

Count  the  silent  stars  of  night, 

That  be  ever  watching,  when 
Lovers  tasting  stolen  delight 

Dream  not  of  their  silent  ken. 

When  these  numbers  thou  hast  told, 

And  hast  kisses  given  as  many, 
Then,  perchance,  I  may  cry,  Hold ! 

And  no  longer  wish  for  any. 

But,  my  love,  there 's  no  amount 

For  my  raging  thirst  too  vast, 
Which  a  curious  fool  may  count, 

Or  with  tongue  malignant  blast.* 


*  The  concluding  lines  of  this  and  the  poem  last  cited  from, 
Catullus  both  refer  to  the  superstition  held  by  many  modern  na- 
tions in  common  with  the  old  Romans,  that  whatever  could  not 
be  counted  was  exempt  from  the  influence  of  magic,  and  vice 
versa,. 


292 


NOTES  TO  THE  LIFE. 


But  the  sun  does  not  always  shine,  even  in  the 
heaven  of  love.  Pretty  Polly's  fancy  will  "  stray 
to  some  newer  lover."  Lesbia  has  thrown  the 
handkerchief  elsewhere.  Catullus  sees  that  he  has 
outlived  her  liking,  and  thus  he  remonstrates. 

Sigh  no  more,  thou  foolish  wight ! 

Catullus,  he  a  man  —  and  deem 
That,  which  thou  seest  hast  perish'd  quite, 

To  be  like  an  evanish'd  dream. 

O,  life  was  once  a  heaven  to  thee  ! 

Her  eyes  beam'd  at  thy  coming  then  — 
The  maid  beloved,  as  ne'er  shall  be 

Maiden  beloved  by  thee  again. 

Then  didst  thou  freely  taste  the  bliss, 
On  which  impassioned  lovers  feed ; 

When  she  repaid  thee  kiss  for  kiss, 
O,  life  was  then  a  heaven  indeed ! 

'T  is  past !  Forget  as  she  forgot ! 

Lament  no  more  —  but  let  her  go  ! 
Tear  from  thy  heart  each  tender  thought, 

That  round  her  image  there  did  grow  ! 

Girl,  fare  thee  well !  Catullus  ne'er 

Will  sue,  where  love  is  met  with  scorn ; 

But,  false  one,  thou  with  none  to  care 
For  thee,  on  thy  lone  couch  shalt  mourn ! 

Think  what  a  waste  thy  life  shall  be  ! 

Who  '11  woo  thee  now  ?  who  praise  thy  charms  ? 
Who  shall  be  all  in  all  to  thee, 

Thy  heart's  love  nestling  in  thy  arms  ? 

Who  now  will  give  thee  kiss  for  kiss  ? 

Whose  lip  shalt  thou  in  rapture  bite  ? 
And  in  thy  lone  hours  think  of  this, 

My  heart  has  cast  thee  from  it  quite. 


NOTES  TO  THE  LIFE. 


293 


Clodia,  for  such  was  Lesbia's  real  name,  was  a 
woman,  as  we  learn  from  Cicero's  witty  oration  in 
defence  of  Cselius,  who  abandoned  herself  to  the 
whole  round  of  dissipations,  which  lay  open,  in  a 
luxurious  city  like  Rome,  to  a  rich  and  profligate 
beauty.  We  know  that  she  numbered  in  her  train 
of  admirers  men  of  the  first  families  in  the  city ;  but 
she  seems  to  have  pursued  her  pleasures  with  an 
indiscriminate  appetite,  which  was  not  scrupulous 
as  to  the  character  or  rank  of  her  associates.  To 
this  Catullus  alludes  more  than  once,  and,  in  partic- 
ular, in  a  poem  to  Caelius,  couched  in  terms  of  the 
bitterest  disgust.  That  he  was  unable,  notwith- 
standing, to  maintain  the  resolution  to  forget  her 
expressed  in  the  poem  just  quoted  was  only  to  be 
anticipated.  The  wanton  beauty  held  him  in  her 
meshes,  and  he  was  as  ready  to  be  deceived  with 
his  eyes  open  ,as  ever.  After  some  temporary  rec- 
onciliation he  probably  wrote  these  caustic  lines. 

My  mistress  says,  there 's  not  a  man 
Of  all  the  many  swains  she  knows, 

She 'd  rather  wed  than  me,  not  one, 
Though  Jove  himself  were  to  propose. 

She  says  so ;  —  but  what  woman  says 

To  him  who  thinks  his  tale  has  caught  her, 

'T  is  only  fit  it  should  be  writ 
In  air  or  in  the  running  water. 

Such  must  ever  be  the  Jeremiad  of  him  who  fixes 
his  affections  on  a  "  weed  of  glorious  feature  "  like 
Lesbia.  Well  for  him  if  he  can  tear  it  from  his 
heart !  Catullus  could  not.  With  all  her  faults, 
he  loved  her  as  passionately  as  before;  but  how 
changed  that  love !  There  is  deep  pathos  in  the 
following :  — 

You  told  me,  —  ah,  well  I  remember  the  hour ! 
That  still  to  Catullus  thy  heart  should  be  true, 


294 


NOTES  TO  THE  LIFE. 


That,  blest  with  his  heart's  love,  thy  best,  brightest 
dower, 

Even  Jove  at  thy  feet  unregarded  might  sue. 
Then  I  loved  thee,  and  oh  !  what  a  passion  was  mine  I 

Undimmed  by  dishonour,  unsullied  by  shame, 
O,  't  was  pure  as  a  sire  round  his  child  might  en- 
twine, 

To  guard  its  dear  head  with  the  sheltering  flame. 

Now  I  know  thee,  how  faithless,  how  worthless  thou 
art! 

That  the  stain  of  dishonour  is  dark^on  thy  brow, 
And  though  thou  may'st  still  be  the  queen  of  my 
heart, 

How  changed  the  emotions  I  feel  for  thee  now ! 
No  more  the  pure  being  my  fancy  adored, 

With  incense  sent  up  from  love's  hallowing  fire, 
Thou  hast  fallen,  and  my  heart,  to  thy  infamy 
lower'd, 

Is  cursed  with  the  rage  of  degrading  desire. 

In  a  similar  mood  must  he  have  written  the  fol- 
lowing couplet :  — 

I  hate  and  love  —  wherefore  I  cannot  tell, 
But  by  my  tortures  know  the  fact  too  well. 

Once  more,  however,  the  temptress  threw  her 
fascinations  around  him.  His  scorn  of  her  fickle- 
ness, and  her  frailty,  —  the  bitter  promptings  of 
his  own  self-reproach  were  forgotten,  and  he  wrote 
thus : 

O  Lesbia,  surely  no  mortal  was  ever 

So  fond  of  a  woman  as  I  am  of  you 
A.  youth  more  devoted,  more  constant  was  never ; — ■ 

To  me  there 's  enchantment  in  all  that  you  do. 


NOTES  TO  THE  LIFE. 


295 


Yes,  love  has  so  wholly  confused  my  ideas 

Of  right  and  of  wrong,  that  1 11  doat  on  you  still, 

As  fondly,  as  blindly,  although  you  may  be  as 
Chaste  or  as  naughty  as  ever  you  will ! 

Every  lover  recognises  the  truth  of  the  follow- 
ing lines,  which  were  probably  written  when  Catul- 
lus had  been  alienated  from  her  side  by  some  of 
their  lovers'  quarrels. 

Lesbia  rails  at  me,  they  say, 
Talks  against  me  all  the  day. 
May  I  die,  but  I  can  tell 
By  this,  that  Lesbia  loves  me  well ! 

Would  you  know  my  reason,  Sir  ? 
Even  so  I  rail  at  her. 
But  may  I  die,  but  I  can  tell 
I  love  my  Lesbia  but  too  well  ? 

The  symptom  is,  we  believe,  infallible.  See  how 
it  ended  with  Catullus !  One  day,  as  he  lay  medi- 
tating very  possibly  his  fine  tale  of 

Ariadne  passioning 
For  Theseus'  perjuries  and  unjust  flight 

the  lady  walked  into  his  apartment.  We  leave 
him  to  tell  the  rest. 

There 's  not  a  joy  we  have  so  strong, 

As  when  some  wish  by  chance  is  granted, 

For  which,  though  hugg'd  and  cherish'd  long, 
Without  a  hope  we  long  had  panted. 

Such  was  my  joy,  my  glad  surprise, 

When  gloom  around  my  head  was  closing, 

To  find  thee,  with  thy  ardent  eyes, 
Once  more  within  my  arms  reposing. 


296 


NOTES  TO  THE  LIFE. 


You  came  to  me  —  unsought  you  came  — 
And  brought  with  you  delight  the  rarest, 

When  Hope  had  left  Love's  drooping  flame ; 
O  day  of  days  the  brightest,  fairest ! 

What  living  man  more  blest  than  I, 

So  lapp'd  and  throughly  wrapp'd  in  blisses ! 

All  human  fancy  I  defy 

To  feign  a  greater  joy  than  this  is ! 

Under  such  circumstances  what  could  Catullus 
do  ?  There  was  a  tear  glistening  in  the  soft  eyes 
of  his  mistress,  as  she  begged  forgiveness,  and  prom- 
ised constancy  for  the  future.  Catullus  kissed  it 
away,  and  addressed  her  thus :  — 

O,  my  soul's  joy,  and  dost  thou  wish,  as  now, 
That  evermore  our  love  burn  strong  and  clear  ? 

Ye  gods,  grant  she  be  faithful  to  her  vow, 
And  that 't  is  uttered  from  a  heart  sincere ! 

So  may  each  year  that  hurries  o'er  us  find, 

While  others  change  with  life's  still  changing  hue, 

The  ties  that  bind  us  now  more  firmly  twined, 
Our  hearts  as  fond,  our  love  as  warm  and  true. 

Lesbia's  vow  was,  of  course,  broken,  and  the 
great  king  of  gods  and  men,  who  "  laughs  at  lovers' 
perjuries,"  was  thus  passionately  invoked  by  the 
unfortunate  lover  in  a  way  that  leaves  no  doubt 
upon  the  subject. 

If  there  be  joy  for  him  who  can  retrace 

His  life,  and  see  some  good  deeds  shining  there, 

Who  never  plighted  vows,  in  the  dread  face 
Of  heaven,  to  lure  another  to  his  snare ; 

Then  many  a  joy  through  many  a  smiling  year 
For  thee,  Catullus,  is  there  yet  in  store, 


NOTES  TO  THE  LIFE. 


297 


Requital  of  thy  truth  to  one  so  dear, 

So  false  as  she,  the  maid  thou  dost  adore. 

Why  longer  keep  thy  heart  upon  the  rack  ? 

Give  to  thy  thoughts  a  higher,  nobler  aim ! 
The  gods  smile  on  thy  path ;  then  look  not  back 

In  tears  upon  a  love  that  was  thy  shame. 

'T  is  hard  at  once  to  fling  a  love  away, 
That  has  been  cherish'd  with  the  faith  of  years. 

'T  is  hartl  —  but 't  is  thy  duty.    Come,  what  may, 
Crush  every  record  of  its  joys,  its  fears  ! 

0  ye  great  gods,  if  you  can  pity  feel, 

If  e'er  to  dying  wretch  your  aid  was  given, 
See  me  in  agony  before  you  kneel, 

To  beg  this  curse  may  from  me  far  be  driven, 

That  creeps  in  drowsy  horror  through  each  vein, 
Leaves  me  no  thought  from  bitter  anguish  free. 

1  do  not  ask,  she  may  be  kind  again, 

No,  nor  be  chaste,  for  that  may  never  be  ! 

I  ask  for  peace  of  mind  —  a  spirit  clear 

From  the  dark  taint  that  now  upon  it  rests. 

Give  then,  O  give,  ye  gods,  this  boon  so  dear 
To  one  who  ever  hath  revered  thy  'hests ! 

With  this  ends  what  remains  to  us  of  the  poems 
relating  to  Lesbia,  —  a  fasciculus,  which  presents  in 
vivid  colours  that  conflict  of  emotions  which  must 
ever  spring  from  love  wasted  upon  profligate  incon- 
stancy. 


13* 


NOTES  TO  BOOK  FIKST  OF  ODES. 


ODE  I.  p.  37. 

M&cenas,  sprung  from  monarchs  old.  C.  Cilniug 
MiBcenas  belonged  to  the  family  of  the  Cilniiy 
descendants  of  Cilnius  of  Arretium,  one  of  the 
Lucumones,  or  princes  of  Etruria.  It  is  to  this  cir- 
cumstance that  Horace  alludes  here,  and  in  the 
Ode  39,  B.  III.  line  1.  Msecenas  never  accepted 
any  of  the  high  offices  of  state,  preferring  to  remain 
a  mere  knight ;  a  rank  of  which,  to  judge  by  the 
emphasis  with  which  Horace  dwells  upon  it  in  more 
than  one  poem,  he  appears  to  have  been  proud 
In  the  words  of  Mr.  Newman,  he  was  "  the  chief 
commoner  of  Rome,"  but  "  whatever  his  nominal 
relation  to  the  state,  was  more  powerful  than  Sena- 
tors and  Magistrates."  {The  Odes  of  Horace,  Trans- 
lated by  F.  W.  Newman.    London,  1853,  p.  3.) 

Golden  Attalus.  Attalus  III.,  last  king  of  Perga- 
mus,  bequeathed  his  possessions  to  the  Roman  peo- 
ple.   B.  C.  133. 

Africus.    The  W.  S.  W.  wind. 

Massic  old.  The  Massic  wine,  the  produce  of 
Mons  Massicus,  in  Campania,  like  the  Falernian, 
which  came  from  another  side  of  the  mountain,  was 
highly  esteemed. 


NOTES  TO  BOOK  FIRST  OF  ODES.  299 


ODE  H.  p.  39. 

Rising  in  ire,  to  avenge  his  Ilia's  plaint.  Hia, 
the  mother  by  Mars  of  Romulus  and  Remus,  was 
drowned  in  the  Anio,  a  tributary  of  the  Tiber,  to 
the  god  of  which  latter  river  Horace  here  assumes 
her  to  have  been  wedded.  Her  u  plaint "  is  for  the 
death  of  her  descendant,  Julius  Caesar. 

The  Marxian's  flashing  eye,  and  fateful  port.  The 
Marsi,  the  most  warlike  people  of  Italy,  are  named 
here  as  representative  of  the  Roman  soldiery  in 
general. 

ODE  IV.  p.  43. 

Our  own  poet  Carew  had  this  Ode  and  the  7. 
Ode  of  the  Fourth  Book  (ante,  p.  219)  in  his  mind, 
when  he  wrote  the  following  lines  on  the  spring. 

Now  that  the  winter's  gone,  the  earth  hath  lost 

Her  snow-white  robes ;  and  now  no  more  the  frost 

Candies  the  grass,  or  casts  an  icy  cream 

Upon  the  silver  lake  or  crystal  stream : 

But  the  warm  sun  thaws  the  benumbed  earth, 

And  makes  it  tender ;  gives  a  sacred  birth 

To  the  dead  swallow ;  wakes  in  hollow  tree 

The  drowsy  cuckoo,  and  the  humble-bee. 

Now  do  a  choir  of  chirping  minstrels  bring, 

In  triumph  to  the  world,  the  youthful  Spring ; 

The  vallies,  hills,  and  woods  in  rich  array 

Welcome  the  coming  of  the  long'd  for  May. 

Now  all  things  smile;  only  my  Love  doth  lour; 

Nor  hath  our  scalding  noonday  sun  the  power 

To  melt  that  marble  ice,  which  still  doth  hold 

Her  heart  congeaPd,  and  make  her  pity  cold. 

The  ox  that  lately  did  for  shelter  fly 

Into  the  stall,  doth  now  securely  lie 

In  open  fields ;  and  love  no  more  is  made 

By  the  fireside  ;  but  in  the  cooler  shade 


300         NOTES  TO  BOOK  FIRST  OF  ODES. 


Amyntas  now  doth  with  his  Chloris  sleep 
Under  a  sycamore,  and  all  things  keep 
Time  with  the  season  —  only  she  doth  tarry, 
June  in  her  eyes,  in  her  heart  January. 

Malherbe,  in  his  beautiful  poem  of  condolence  to 
his  friend  M.  du  Perrier  on  the  loss  of  a  daughter, 
adopts  in  one  stanza  the  thought  and  almost  the 
words  of  Horace.  But  indeed  the  whole  poem  is 
so  thoroughly  Horatian  in  spirit  and  expression, 
that  it  might  almost  seem  to  have  flowed  from  the 
pen  of  the  Venusian  bard.  To  those  who  are  not 
already  familiar  with  the  poem,  the  following  stanza? 
of  it  will  be  welcome. 

Je  sais  de  quels  appas  son  enfance  etait  pleine, 

Et  n'ai  pas  entrepris, 
Injurieux  ami,  de  soulager  ta  peine 

Avecque  son  mepris. 

Mais  elle  etait  du  monde,  oil  les  plus  belles  choses 

Ont  le  pire  destin ; 
Et,  rose,  elle  a  vecu  ce  que  vivent  les  roses, 

L'espace  d'un  matin. 

#  *  * 

La  mort  a  des  rigueurs  a  nulle  autre  pareilles ; 

On  a  beau  la  prier ; 
La  cruelle  qu'elle  est  se  bouche  les  oreilles, 

Et  nous  laisse  crier. 

Le  pauvre  en  sa  cabane,  oil  le  chaume  le  couvre, 

Est  sujet  a  ses  lois ; 
Et  la  garde  qui  veille  aux  barrieres  du  Louvre 

N'en  defend  point  nos  rois. 

De  murmurer  contre  elle  et  perdre  patience 

II  est  mal  a  propos ; 
Vouloir  ce  que  Dieu  veut  est  la  seule  science, 

Qui  nous  met  en  repos. 


NOTES  TO  BOOK  FIRST  OF  ODES. 


301 


In  exquisite  finish  of  expression  nothing  finer 
than  these  lines  can  be  desired,  and  there  runs 
through  them  a  vein  of  feeling  more  delicately  ten- 
der than  is  to  be  found  anywhere  in  Horace.  This 
was  probably  due  to  the  purer  faith  of  the  modern, 
which  insensibly  coloured  the  almost  Pagan  tone  of 
the  poem.  Malherbe  made  Horace  his  breviary,  — 
with  what  effect,  these  lines  prove. 


ODE  IX.  p.  51. 

Allan  Ramsay's  paraphrase  of  this  Ode  has  all 
the  freshness  and  vigour  of  Horace,  with  added 
touches  of  his  own,  not  unworthy  of  the  original. 

Look  up  to  Pentland's  tow'ring  taps, 
Buried  beneath  great  wreaths  of  snaw, 

O'er  ilka  cleugh,  ilk  scaur  and  slap, 
As  high  as  ony  Roman  wa\ 

% 

Driving  their  ba's  frae  whins  or  tee, 

There 's  no  ae  gowfer  to  be  seen, 
Nor  douser  fouk  wysing  ajee 

The  by  as  bowls  on  Tamson's  green. 

Then  fling  on  coals,  and  rype  the  ribs, 
And  beek  the  house  baith  butt  and  ben, 

That  mutchkin  stoup,  it  hauds  but  dribs, 
Then  let 's  get  in  the  tappit  hen. 

Good  claret  best  keeps  out  the  cauld, 
And  drives  away  the  winter  soon, 

It  makes  a  man  baith  gash  and  bauld, 
And  heaves  his  saul  beyond  the  moon. 

Leave  to  the  gods  your  ilka  care, 

If  that  they  think  us  worth  their  while, 

They  can  a  rowth  o'  blessings  spare, 
Which  will  our  fashions  fears  beguile. 


302 


NOTES  TO  BOOK  FLRST  OF  ODES. 


For  what  they  have  a  mind  to  do, 

That  will  they  do,  though  we  gang  wud ; 

If  they  command  the  storms  to  blaw. 
Then  upo'  sight  the  hail-stanes  thud. 

But  soon  as  e'er  they  cry.  Be  quiet, 

The  blatt'ring  winds  dare  nae  mair  move, 

But  cower  into  their  caves,  and  wait 
The  high  command  of  sov'reign  Jove. 

Let  neist  day  come  as  it  thinks  fit, 
The  present  minute 's  only  ours ; 

On  pleasure  let 's  employ  our  wit. 

And  laugh  at  fortune's  feckless  pow'rs. 

Be  sure  ye  dinna  quit  the  grip 
Of  ilka  joy,  when  ye  are  young, 

Before  auld  age  your  vitals  nip, 
And  lay  ye  twafauld  o'er  a  rung. 

Sweet  youth 's  a  blythe  and  heart-some  time ; 

Then  lads  and  lasses,  while  it 's  May, 
Gae  pou  the  gowan  in  its  prime, 

Before  it  wither  and  decay. 

Watch  the  saffc  minutes  of  delight, 

When  Jenny  speaks  beneath  her  breath, 

And  kisses,  laying  a'  the  wyte 
On  you,  if  she  kep  any  skaith. 

"  Haitk  !  ye  're  ill-bred  !  "  she  '11  smiling  say, 
"  Ye  '11  worry  me,  ye  greedy  rook  ! " 

Syne  frae  your  arms  she  '11  rin  away, 
And  hide  hersell  in  some  dark  nook. 

Her  laugh  will  lead  you  to  the  place 
Where  lies  the  happiness  you  want, 

And  plainly  tells  you  to  your  face, 
^Nineteen  nay-says  are  half  a  grant. 


NOTES  TO  BOOK  FIRST  OF  ODES.  303 


Now  to  her  heaving  bosom  cling, 

And  sweetly  toolie  for  a  kiss, 
Frae  her  fair  finger  whop  a  ring, 

As  taiken  of  a  future  bliss. 

These  benisons,  T 'm  very  sure, 

Are  of  the  gods  indulgent  grant ; 
Then,  surely  carles,  whisht,  forbear 

To  plague  us  wi'  your  whining  cant. 

Allan  Ramsay  attempted  versions  of  other  Odes, 
but  this  was  his  only  success. 


ODE  XIII.  p.  58. 

0,  trebly  blest,  and  blest  forever,  fyc.  Moore  has 
paraphrased  this  passage  in  the  favourite  lines,  — 

There 's  a  bliss  beyond  all  that  the  minstrel  has  told, 

When  two,  that  are  link'd  in  one  heavenly  tie, 
With  heart  never  changing,  and  brow  never  cold, 

Love  on  through  all  ills,  and  love  on  till  they  die  ! 
One  hour  of  a  passion  so  sacred  is  worth 

Whole  ages  of  heartless  and  wandering  bliss; 
And  oh  !  if  there  be  an  Elyisum  on  earth 

It  is  this,  it  is  this ! 


ODE  XVI.  p.  63. 

Dindymene  herself  Sfc.  Cybele,  an  Asiatic  god- 
dess, called  by  the  Greeks  "the  mother  of  the 
Gods,"  was  called  Dindymene  from  mount  Dindy- 
mus  in  Phrygia.  She  is  represented  as  roaming 
through  the  world  in  a  chariot  drawn  by  lions, 
attended  by  her  priests  the  Galli  and  Corybantes. 
Their  orgies  were  of  a  peculiarly  wild  and  excited 
character.    The  Atys  of  Catullus,  one  of  the  most 


304         NOTES  TO  BOOK  FIRST  OF  ODES. 

picturesque  poems  of  antiquity,  breathes  all  the 
frenzy,  which  was  believed  to  inspire  her  votaries. 
The  following  version  gives  only  a  faint  idea  of 
this  fine  poem,  —  the  hurried  sweep  and  whirl  of 
the  verse,  its  broken  cadences,  its  wild  pathos,  and 
headlong  energy. 

ATYS. 

Swiftly,  swiftly,  o'er  the  ocean  Atys  urged  his  fly- 
ing bark, 

Swiftly  leapt  to  land,  and  plung'd  into  the  Phry- 
gian forest  dark, 

Where  the  mighty  goddess  dwells,  and  furious  with 
a  dark  despair 

Snateh'd  from  the  rock  a  pointed  flint,  and  reft 
himself  of  manhood  there. 

And  when  he  felt  his  manhood  gone,  and  saw  the 

gore-bedabbled  grass, 
Up  in  his  snowy  hands  he  caught  the  timbrel  light, 

that  with  the  brass 
Of  clanging  trumpets  swells  thy  rites,  great  mother 

Cybele,  and  smote 
The  sounding  skin,  and  thus  unto  his  mates  he  sang 

with  frenzied  throat. 

"  Away,  away,  ye  sexless  ones,  to  Cybele's  high 

groves,"  he  said. 
"Away,  ye  truant  herd,  and  hail  your  mistress, 

Dindymene  dread ! 
Ye  exiles  to  strange  lands,  who  dared  with  me  the 

ruthless  ocean's  storms, 
And,  loathing  woman  and  her  love,  emasculate 

your  lusty  forms ! 

"  Rejoice,  rejoice,  what  revelries  our  mistress  has 

in  store  for  us  ! 
No  laggard  fears  retard  ye  now  !    On  to  the  steep 

of  Dindymus ! 


NOTES  TO  BOOK  FIRST  OF  ODES.  305 

Hence  to  her  Phrygian  shrine  with  me  !    On  to  her 

Phrygian  forests  speed ! 
Where  drums  and  echoing  cymbals  crash,  and 

drones  the  curved  Phrygian  reed. 

"  Where  raving  Msenads  wildly  toss  their  ivy-cir- 
cled brows  about, 

Where  they  affright  the  haunts  divine  with  wailing 
shrill  and  piercing  shout, 

Where  to  and  fro  and  up  and  down,  unresting 
evermore  they  stray, 

There  must  we  pay  our  vows,  and  join  the  mystic 
dance  —  away,  away ! " 

He  ceased,  and  his  companions  all  with  eldritch 
howl  repeat  the  strain, 

The  timbrel  light,  the  cymbal's  clash  reverberate 
along  the  plain ; 

To  Ida's  leafy  mountain  straight  along  the  dusky 
pines  they  sped, 

With  Atys,  raging,  panting,  crazed,  careering  breath- 
less at  their  head. 

On,  on  he  flew,  the  maddening  crew  whirled  after  — 

at  the  shrine  they  stopped ; 
There,  wan  and  wearied,  lifelessly  they  all  upon 

the  threshold  dropped ; 
All  faint  and  fasting  down  they  sank  —  a  soft  repose 

their  frenzy  dims, 
And  leaden  sleep  seals  up  their  eyes,  and  'numbs 

their  over-wearied  limbs. 

But  when  the  sun  had  bathed  the  earth,  and  sea, 

and  sky  with  golden  light, 
And  with  his  thunder-pacing  steeds  had  chased 

away  the  shades  of  night, 
Sleep,  leaving  then  the  fevered  brain  of  Atys  calm'd 

with  downy  rest, 
Flew  to  divine  Pasithea,  and  sank  upon  her  gentle 

breast. 

T 


306         NOTES  TO  BOOK  FIRST  OF  ODES. 


The  frenzied  dream  was  past,  and  when  the  wreU  fci 

saw  what  it  was  and  where, 
Again  it  tottered  to  the  shore,  in  agony  of  fierce 

despair, 

There,  gazing  on  the  ocean's  wide  and  waste  expanse 

with  streaming  eyes, 
With  choked  and  broken  voice  nnto  the  country  of 

its  birth  it  cries. 

"  My  country,  O  my  country,  my  mother,  and  my 

nurse  !    From  whom 
T,  like  a  recreant  slave,  have  fled  to  Ida's  dreary 

forest-gloom, 

To  rocks  and  snows,  and  frozen  dens,  to  make  with 

beasts  my  savage  lair, 
Where  dost  thou  lie,  thou  loved  land,  my  country, 

O,  my  country,  where  ? 

"  O,  let  me  see  thee,  whilst  my  brain  is  yet  awhile 

from  madness  free  ! 
Wretch,  must  I  house  in  these  grim  woods,  far,  far 

from  home  unceasingly: 
Friends,  country,  parents,  all,  all  gone !  —  the 

throng,  the  struggle  for  the  goal, 
The  wrestler's  gripe  —  O  misery !  —  weep,  weep, 

forever  weep,  my  soul ! 

"  What  grace,  what  beauty,  but  was  mine  ?  Boy, 

youth,  and  man,  I  was  the  flower 
Of  the  gymnasium ;  and  the  best,  that  wore  the  oil, 

confess 'd  my  power : 
My  doors  were  ever  throng'd,  and  when  I  left  my 

couch  at  break  of  day, 
Fair  garlands  hung  by  beauteous  hands  around 

them  welcomed  me  alway. 

"What  am  I  now?    Slave  to  the  gods  —  crazed 

votary  of  horrid  rites  — 
Maimed  barren,  ever  doomed  to  freeze  on  Ida's 

green  and  snow-girt  heights, 


NOTES  TO  BOOK  FIRST  OF  ODES.  30? 


'Neath  Phrygia's  frowning  crags,  where  roam  the 

stag  and  forest-ranging  boar, 
Woe,  woe,  that  e'er  I  did  the  deed !  that  e'er  I 

touched  this  fatal  shore  ! " 

The  wandering  winds  caught  up  the  words,  as  from 
his  rosy  lips  they  fell, 

And  bore  those  sounds  so  strangely  wild  to  where 
the  blest  immortals  dwell ; 

They  reached  the  ears  of  Cybele,  who  loosed  her 
lions  from  the  yoke, 

And  thus  to  him  was  on  the  left  in  words  of  kin- 
dling ire  she  spoke : 

u  Away,  away,  pursue  your  prey !  Scare,  scare  him 
back  in  wild  affright, 

Back  to  the  woods,  the  wretch  that  spurns  my  ser- 
vice, and  that  scorns  my  might, 

Lash,  lash  thy  flanks,  with  furious  roar  shake  terror 
from  thy  shaggy  mane, 

Away,  away ! "  She  ceased,  and  flung  upon  his 
neck  the  loosen'd  rein  ! 

Frantic  and  fierce,  with  roar  and  plunge  the  mon- 
ster through  the  thicket  crash'd, 

And  on  to  the  surf-beaten  shore,  where  stood  the 
gentle  Atys,  dash'd. 

The  wretch  beheld  him  —  wild  with  fear,  into  the 
shaggy  forest  fled, 

And  there  in  orgies  drear  a  life  of  ministering  bond- 
age led. 

O  goddess  ever  to  be  feared,  O  goddess  great  and 
wonderous, 

O  Cybele  divine,  that  hast  thy  reign  on  shady 
Dindymus, 

O  may  thy  madness  never  touch  my  heart,  nor 
blast  my  trembling  brain, 

In  others  let  thy  visions  wild,  thy  frenzied  inspira- 
tions reign ! 


308         NOTES  TO  BOOK  FIRST  OF  ODES. 


ODE  XVII.  p.  65. 

My  own  sweet  Lucretilis,  fyc.  Ustica's  low  vale. 
Horace  here  invites  the  fair  Tyndaris  to  visit  him 
at  his  Sabine  Villa.  Lucre tilis  and  Ustica  are 
hills  in  its  neighborhood.  Mr.  Newman,  whose 
tenderness  for  Horace's  morals  goes  so  far  as  obvi- 
ously to  cost  him  serious  personal  uneasiness,  thinks 
them  in  no  danger  in  this  instance.  "  The  whole 
tone  towards  Tyndaris,"  he  says,  "  is  fatherly  as 
well  as  genial."  Certainly  the  paternal  character 
of  the  relation  does  not  strike  the  common  reader. 
The  lady,  it  is  to  be  surmised,  was  no  Lucretia; 
and  solus  cum  sola,  says  the  Canon,  non  presumitur 
orare ;  least  of  all  when,  as  in  this  case,  the  gentle- 
man undertakes  to  console  the  lady  for  the  cruel 
usage  of  a  former  admirer.  Still  there  may  be  com- 
fort for  Mr.  Newman.  Horace  invites  Tyndaris  to 
visit  him ;  but  did  she  go  ?  As  a  counterpart  to 
the  picture  suggested  by  this  Ode  of  the  pleasant 
woodland  festival  of  the  poet  and  the  celebrated 
singer,  where  the  talk  (Greek,  probably)  would  be 
polished  and  witty,  and  the  repast  "light  and 
choice,  of  Attic  taste,  with  wine,"  let  us  take  the 
picture  of  a  homelier  kind  of  festival,  kindred  in 
Character,  if  not  quite  so  refined,  which  Virgil  has 

Eainted  in  his  Copa.    The  one  is  a  cabinet  sketch 
y  Watteau,  the  other  a  gallery  picture  dashed  in 
with  the  broad  brush,  and  vivid  colours  of  Rubens. 

THE  TAVERN  DANCING  GIRL. 

See  the  Syrian  girl,  her  tresses  with  the  Greek 
tiara  bound, 

SkilPd  to  strike  the  castanets,  and  foot  it  to  their 

merry  sound, 
Through  the  tavern's  reeky  chamber,  with  her 

cheeks  all  flush'd  with  wine, 
Strikes  the  rattling  reeds,  and  dances,  whilst  around 

the  guests  recline ! 


NOTES  TO  BOOK  FIRST  OF  ODES.  309 

"  Wherefore  thus,  footsore  and  weary,  plod  through 

summer's  dust  and  heat  ? 
Better  o'er  the  wine  to  linger,  laid  in  yonder  cool 

retreat  ! 

There  are  casks,  and  cans,  and  goblets,  —  roses, 

fifes,  and  lutes  are  there,  — 
Shady  walks,  where  arching  branches  cool  for  us 

the  sultry  air. 
There  from  some  Msenalian  grotto,  all  unseen,  some 

rustic  maid 

Pipes  her  shepherd  notes,  that  babble  sweetly 

through  the  listening  glade. 
There,  in  cask  pitch'd  newly  over,  is  a  vintage 

clear  and  strong ; 
There,  among  the  trees,  a  brooklet  brawls  with 

murmur  hoarse  along ; 
There  be  garlands,  where  the  violet  mingling  with 

the  crocus  blows, 
Chaplets  of  the  safiron  twining  through  the  blushes 

of  the  rose  ; 

Lilies,  too,  which  Acheloes  shall  in  wicker  baskets 
bring' 

Lilies  fresh  and  sparkling,  newly  dipp'd  within 
some  virgin  spring. 

There  are  little  cheeses  also,  laid  between  the  ver- 
dant rushes, 

Yellow  plums,  the  bloom  upon  them,  which  they 

took  from  Autumn's  blushes, 
Chestnuts,  apples  ripe  and  rosy,  cakes  which  Ceres 

might  applaud ; 
Here,  too,  dwelleth  gentle  Amor ;  here  with  Bac- 
chus, jovial  god ! 
Bloodred  mulberries,  and  clusters  of  the  trailing 

vine  between, 
Rush-bound  cucumbers  are  there,  too,  with  their 

sides  of  bloomy  green. 
There,  too,  stands  the  cottage-guardian,  in  his  hand 

a  willow-hook, 
But  he  bears  no  other  weapon ;  maidens  unabash'd 

may  look. 


810         NOTES  TO  BOOK  FIRST  OF  ODES. 


Come,  my  Alibida,  hither !  See,  your  ass  is  fairly 

beat ! 

Spare  him,  as  I  know  you  love  him.    How  he 's 

panting  with  the  heat! 
Now  from  brake  and  bush  is  shrilling  the  cicada's 

piercing  note ; 
E'en  the  lizard  now  is  hiding  in  some  shady  nook 

remote. 

Lay  ye  down  !  —  to  pause  were  folly  —  by  the  glassy 

fountain's  brink, 
Cool  your  goblet  in  the  crystal,  cool  it  ever,  ere 

you  drink.  — 
Come,  and  let  your  wearied  body  'neath  the  shady 

vine  repose, 

Come,  and  bind  your  languid  temples  with  a  chap- 
let  of  the  rose ! 

Come,  and  ye  shall  gather  kisses  from  the  lips  of 
yon  fair  girl ; 

He,  whose  forehead  ne'er  relaxes,  ne'er  looks  sun- 
ny, is  a  churl ! 

Why  should  we  reserve  these  fragrant  garlands  for 
the  thankless  dust  ? 

Would  ye  that  their  sweets  were  gather'd  for  the 
monumental  bust  ? 

Wine  there  !  —  Wine  and  dice  !  —  To-morrow's  fears 
shall  fools  alone  benumb  ! 

By  the  ear  Death  pulls  me.  "  Live  !  "  he  whispers 
softly,  "  Live  !  I  come  !  " 

Baehr,  in  his  History  of  Roman  Literature,  sug- 
gests that  this  poem  was  written,  not  by  Virgil, 
but  by  the  Valgius  Kufus,  to  whom  Horace  ad- 
dressed the  Ninth  Ode  of  the  Second  Book  (p.  114, 
ante). 

ODE  XX.  p.  70. 

This  Ode  is  either  an  invitation  to  Maecenas 
to  visit  the  poet  at  his  farm  (Maecenas's  gift),  or, 


NOTES  TO  BOOK  FIRST  OF  ODES.  311 

more  probably,  a  note  written  with  the  view  of 
preparing  the  luxurious  statesman  for  the  homely 
fare  of  the  place,  on  hearing  that  he  intended  to 
pay  him  a  visit.  The  age  of  the  home-grown  wine 
is  marked  by  a  flattering  allusion  to  an  incident, 
which  had  manifestly  gratified  Maecenas  greatly,  — 
the  applause  of  the  theatre  on  his  first  appearance 
there  after  recovering  from  a  dangerous  illness. 
Horace  makes  another  reference  to  the  same  occur- 
rence (B.  II.  Ode  17,  p.  130,  ante).  The  theatre 
referred  to  was  that  built  by  Pompey,  after  the 
Mithridatic  war,  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  Tiber 
from  Mount  Vatican.  The  wines  mentioned  in  the 
last  stanza  were  all  high-class  Italian  wines.  The 
CEecuban  was  from  a  district  of  Latium,  near  Amy- 
cla?  and  Fundi.  The  wines  of  Cales  and  Falernum, 
like  the  Massic  wine,  were  from  Campania.  For- 
mse,  now  Mola  di  Gaeta,  in  Latium  was  supposed 
to  be  the  capital  of  the  Laestrygons.  The  wines  of 
Campania,  according  to  Pliny,  were  the  finest. 


ODE  XXII.  p.  72. 

Of  the  Aristius  Fuscus,  to  whom  this  Ode  is 
addressed,  nothing  is  known,  except  that  Horace 
ranks  him  (Satires  I.  10,  1.  83)  with  his  friends 
Plotius,  Varius,  Maecenas,  Virgil,  and  others,  and 
addressed  to  him  the  following  Epistle,  the  Tenth 
of  the  First  Book. 

To  Fuscus,  our  most  city-loving  friend, 
We,  lovers  of  the  country,  greeting  send  — 
We,  whom  in  this  most  diverse  views  divide, 
Though  well-nigh  twins  in  everything  beside. 
True  mental  brothers  we  —  what  one  denies 
The  other  questions ;  and  in  self-same  wise 
Are  we  in  fancies  one,  in  tastes,  in  loves, 
As  an}  pair  of  year-long  mated  doves. 


312         NOTES  TO  BOOK  FIRST  OF  ODES. 

You  keep  the  nest ;  I  love  the  country  brooks, 
The  moss-grown  rocks,  and  shady  woodland  nooks. 
And  why  V    Because  I  live  and  am  a  king, 
The  moment  I  can  far  behind  me  fling 
What  you  extol  with  rapture  to  the  skies ; 
And,  like  the  slave  that  from  the  temple  flies, 
Because  on  sweet-cakes  he  is  daily  fed, 
So  I,  a  simple  soul,  lack  simple  bread, 
With  honey'd  dainties  pall'd  and  surfeited. 

If  it  be  proper,  as  it  ever  was, 
To  live  in  consonance  with  nature's  laws ; 
Or  if  we  'd  seek  a  spot,  whereon  to  raise 
A  home  to  shelter  our  declining  days, 
What  place  so  fitting  as  the  country  ?  Where 
Comes  nipping  winter  with  a  kindlier  air  ? 
Where  find  we  breezes  balmier  to  cool 
The  fiery  dog-days,  when  the  sun's  at  full  ? 
Or  where  is  envious  care  less  apt  to  creep, 
And  scare  the  blessings  of  heart-easing  sleep  ? 
Is  floor  mosaic,  gemm'd  with  malachite, 
One  half  so  fragrant  or  one  half  so  bright 
As  the  sweet  herbage  ?    Or  the  stream  town-fed, 
That  frets  to  burst  its  cerements  of  lead, 
More  pure  than  that  which  shoots  and  gleams  along. 
Murmuring  its  low  and  lulling  undersong  ? 
Nay,  nay,  your  veriest  townsman  loves  to  shade 
With  sylvan  green  his  stately  colonnade  ; 
And  his  is  deemed  the  finest  house  which  yields 
The  finest  prospect  of  the  open  fields. 
Turn  Nature,  neck-and-shoulders,  out  of  door, 
She  '11  find  her  way  to  where  she  was  before ; 
And  imperceptibly  in  time  subdue 
Wealth's  sickly  fancies,  and  her  tastes  untrue. 

The  man  that's  wholly  skill-less  to  descry 
The  common  purple  from  the  Tyrian  dye, 
Will  take  no  surer  harm,  nor  one  that  more 
Strikes  to  his  marrow  in  its  inmost  core, 
Than  he  who  knows  not  with  instinctive  sense 
To  sever  truth  from  falsehood  and  pretence. 


NOTES  TO  BOOK  FIRST  OF  ODES.  313 

Whoe'er  hath  wildly  wantoned  in  success, 
Him  will  adversity  the  more  depress. 
What's  dearly  prized  we  grudgingly  forego. 
Shun  mighty  aims  ;  the  lowliest  roof  may  know 
A  life  that  more  of  heartfelt  comfort  brings, 
Than  kings  have  tasted,  or  the  friends  of  kings. 

Once  on  a  time  a  stag,  at  antlers'  point, 
Expelled  a  horse  he 'd  worsted,  from  the  joint 
Enjoyment  of  the  pasture  both  had  cropped : 
Still,  when  he  ventured  near  it,  rudely  stopped, 
The  steed  called  in  man's  aid,  and  took  the  bit : 
Thus  backed,  he  charged  the  stag,  and  conquer'd  it. 
But  woe  the  while  !  nor  rider,  bit,  nor  rein 
Could  he  shake  off,  and  be  himself  again. 
So  he,  who,  fearing  poverty,  hath  sold 
His  freedom,  better  than  uncounted  gold, 
Will  bear  a  master  and  a  master's  laws, 
And  be  a  slave  unto  the  end,  because 
He  will  not  learn,  what  fits  him  most  to  know, 
How  far,  discreetly  used,  small  means  will  go. 
Whene'er  our  mind 's  at  war  with  our  estate, 
Like  an  ill  shoe,  it  trips  us  if  too  great ; 
Too  small,  it  pinches.    Thou  art  wisely  bent 
To  live,  Aristius,  with  thy  lot  content ; 
Nor  wilt  thou  fail  to  chide  in  me  the  itch, 
Should  it  infect  me,  to  be  greatly  rich ; 
For  hoarded  wealth  is  either  slave  or  lord, 
And  should  itself  be  pulled,  not  pull  the  cord. 

These  near  Vacuna's  crumbling  fane  I 've  penned, 
Blest,  save  in  this,  in  lacking  thee,  my  friend, 

ODE  XXIV,  p.  74. 

In  this  Ode  Horace  condoles  with  Virgil  on  the 
death  of  their  friend  Quintilius  Varus  of  Cremona, 
conjectured  to  be  the  same  person  to  whom  Ode 
XVIII.  ante,  is  addressed.  The  pathos  of  this  poem 
is  genuine  and  profound,  all  the  more  so  from  the 
14 


314         NOTES  TO  BOOK  FIRST  OF  ODES. 


cheerless  absence  of  that  hope  of  an.  after-life  of 
which  revelation  was  so  soon  to  give  the  assurance. 
The  traces  in  ancient  literature  of  a  belief  in  a 
better  world  beyond  the  grave  are  few  and  vague. 
It  is  impossible,  however,  that  the  nobler  minds  of 
Greece  and  Rome  could  have  been  without  strong 
inward  assurances,  that  their  brief  and  troubled 
career  on  earth  could  not  be  the  tk  be  all  and  the  end 
all "  of  their  existence.  The  yearnings  of  the  soul 
for  immortality,  and  for  a  higher  and  happier  state 
of  existence,  must  have  been  the  same  with  them 
as  with  ourselves ;  and  their  affections  were  too 
intense  to  allow  them  to  rest  contentedly  in  the 
conviction,  that  those  whom  they  had  loved  and 
lost  in  death  became  thenceforth  as  though  they 
had  never  been.  How  often  must  the  cry  have 
gone  up  from  the  Pagan  breast,  for  which  our  great 
contemporary  poet  has  found  a  voice  ! 

O  God,  that  it  were  possible 

For  one  short  hour  to  see 

The  souls  we  loved,  that  they  might  tell  us. 

What  and  where  they  be! 

Indeed,  a  belief  in  a  life  beyond  the  present,  in 
which  the  perplexities  of  this  life  shall  be  resolved, 
and  its  inequalities  adjusted,  underlies  the  whole 
Pagan  idea  of  Hades,  with  its  punishments  and 
rewards.  —  The  subject  is  too  wide  to  be  pursued 
here.  But  in  illustration  of  what  the  Pagan  heart 
felt,  when  driven  in  its  anguish  to  seek  comfort 
from  its  instincts,  where  reason  had  no  consolations 
to  offer,  we  present  translations  of  two  of  the  most 
exquisite  poems  of  Catullus.  The  first  is  his  ad- 
dress to  his  friend  Calvus,  on  the  death  of  his  wife 
Quinctilia. 

Calvus,  if  those  now  silent  in  the  tomb 

Can  feel  the  touch  of  pleasure  in  our  tears, 


NOTES  TO  BOOK  FIRST  OF  ODES.  315 


For  those  we.loved,  that  perish'd  in  their  bloom; 

And  the  departed  friends  of  former  years ; 
O,  then,  full  surely  thy  Quinctilia's  woe, 

For  the  untimely  fate  that  bade  ye  part, 
Will  fade  before  the  bliss  she  feels  to  know, 

How  very  dear  she  is  unto  thy  heart !  * 

The  other  is  his  lamant  over  his  brother's  grave. 
This  brother  had  died  upon  the  coast  of  Troy  ;  and 
Catullus  made  a  pilgrimage  to  his  tomb. 

O'er  many  a  sea,  o'er  many  a  stranger  land, 
I 've  come,  my  brother,  to  thy  lonely  tomb, 
To  pay  the  last  sad  tribute  to  thy  doom, 

And  by  thy  silent  ashes  weeping  stand. 

Vainly  I  call  to  thee.    Who  can  command 
An  answer  forth  from  Orcus'  dreary  gloom  ? 
O,  brother,  brother,  life  lost  all  its  bloom, 

When  thou  wert  snatch'd  from  me  with  pitiless 
hand ! 

A  day  will  come,  when  we  shall  meet  once  more  ! 

Meanwhile,  these  gifts,  which  to  the  honour'd 
grave 

Of  those  they  loved  in  life  our  sires  of  yore 

With  pious  hand  and  reverential  gave, 
Accept !  Gifts  moisten'd  with  a  brother's  tears  ! 
And  now,  farewell,  and  rest  thee  from  all  fears  ! 


ODE  XXIX.   p.  83. 

This  Ode  appears  to  have  been  written,  when 
the  expedition  against  the  Arabians  was  first  con- 


*  In  the  same  spirit  is  the  following  passage  in  the  exquisite 
letter  of  condolence,  in  which  Ser.  Sulpicius  remonstrates  with 
Cicero  on  his  excessive  grief  for  the  death  of  his  daughter  Tullia 
'*  Quod  si  qui  etiam  inferis  sensus  est,  qui  illius  in  te  amor  fuit, 
pietasque  in  omnes  suos,  hoc  certe  ilia  te  facei'e  non  vult." 


316         NOTES  TO  BOOK  FIRST  OF  ODES. 

templated  by  Augustus.  Yast  expectations  had 
been  excited  of  the  probable  plunder  of  a  people, 
who  were  the  medium  of  commerce  with  the  East, 
and  had  acquired  a  reputation  for  wealth  which 
they  did  not  possess.  Iccius,  possessed  by  the  pre- 
vailing lust  for  riches,  is  rallied  by  Horace  on  his 
weakness  in  abandoning  his  literary  and  philo- 
sophic pursuits  for  so  ignoble  an  end.  It  is  proba- 
ble that  Iccius  subsequently  joined  the  disastrous 
expedition  under  iElius  Gailus  in  B.  C.  24,  and 
thereby  impaired,  instead  of  augmenting,  his  for- 
tune. Several  years  afterwards  we  find  him  acting 
as  the  resident  agent  for  Agrippa's  great  estates  in 
Sicily.  Time  and  experience  had  obviously  not 
cured  him  of  his  yearning  for  wealth.  Though  of 
simple  personal  tastes  he  tormented  himself  with 
this  insatiable  passion  ;  and  Horace,  whose  practice 
lent  no  ordinary  force  in  this  instance  to  his  pre- 
cepts, rallies  him  upon  his  infirmity  in  the  following 
Epistle,  the  12th  of  the  First  Book. 

Dear  Iccius,  if  you  truly  can 
Enjoy  the  fruits  Sicilian, 
Which  for  Agrippa  you  collect, 
'T  were  very  madness  to  expect, 
That  greater  plenty  e'er  should  be 
By  kindly  Jove  bestow'd  on  thee. 
A  truce  to  your  complaints  ;  for  poor 
That  man  is  not,  who  can  ensure 
Whate'er  for  life  is  needful  found. 
Let  your  digestion  be  but  sound, 
Your  side  unwrung  by  spasm  or  stitch, 
Your  foot  unconscious  of  a  twitch, 
And  could  you  be  more  truly  blest, 
Though  of  the  wealth  of  kings  possess'd  ? 
If  midst  such  choice  of  dainties  rare, 
You  live  on  herbs  and  hermit's  fare, 
You  would  live  on  so,  young  or  old, 
Though  fortune  flooded  you  with  gold ; 


NOTES  TO  BOOK  FIRST  OF  ODES.  317 

Because 't  is  not  in  power  of  pelf 

To  make  you  other  than  yourself, 

Or  else  because  you  virtue  deem 

Above  all  other  things  supreme. 

What  wonder  then,  if,  whilst  his  soul, 

Of  body  heedless,  swept  the  pole, 

Democritus  allow'd  his  beeves 

Make  havoc  of  his  plants  and  sheaves, 

When  you  midst  such  contagious  itch 

Of  being  and  becoming  rich, 

Pursue  your  studies'  noble  bent, 

On  themes  sublime  alone  intent ; 

What  causes  the  wild  ocean's  sway, 

The  seasons  what  from  June  to  May ; 

If  free  the  constellations  roll, 

Or  moved  by  some  supreme  control ; 

What  makes  the  moon  obscure  her  light, 

What  pours  her  splendour  on  the  night ; 

Whence  concord  rises  from  the  jar 

Of  atoms  that  discordant  are, 

Which  crazed,  —  both  were  so,  if  you  please,  — 

Stertinius  or  Empedocles  ? 

But  whether  to  your  simple  dish 

You  stick  of  onions,  pulse,  or  fish, 

Pompeius  Grosphus  welcome  make, 

And  grant  him  freely,  for  my  sake, 

Whate'er  he  asks  you,  sure  of  this, 

'T  will  not  be  anything  amiss. 

Friends  are  most  cheaply  purchased,  when 

We  can  oblige  such  worthy  men. 

And  now,  then,  to  apprise  you,  how 
Stand  Koman  politics  just  now  ! 
Agrippa's  prowess  has  laid  low 
The  Spaniard;  the  Armenian  foe 
To  Claudius  Nero's  arms  has  bow'd  ; 
Phra'ates  on  his  knees  avow'd, 
That  Csesar's  rights  and  Caesar's  sway 
He  will  acknowledge  and  obey ; 
And  from  her  full  horn  Plenty  pours 
Her  fruits  on  our  Italian  shores. 


318         NOTES  TO  BOOK  FIRST  OF  ODES. 

The  Pompeius  Grosphus  here  mentioned,  a  Ro- 
man knight,  and  a  man  of  wealth,  was  a  native  of 
Sicily.    Ode  XVI.  B.  I.  is  addressed  to  him. 

ODE  XXXI.  p.  85. 

This  Ode  was  composed  on  the  occasion  of  the 
dedication  by  Augustus,  B.  C.  28,  of  the  Temple  to 
Apollo,  on  Mount  Palatine,  in  which  also  he  depos- 
ited his  library. 

ODE  XXXIII.  p.  88. 

Aulus  Albius  Tibullus,  the  elegiac  poet,  served 
with  Messala  in  Aquitania.  B.  C.  28  -  27.  He 
died  young,  B.  C.  19,  about  the  same  time  as  Vir- 
gil. Young  and  handsome  as  he  must  have  been, 
when  this  Ode  was  written,  he  had  obviously  been 
cut  out  of  Glycera's  favour  by  some  younger  rival. 
Young  Telephus  had  served  Horace  a  similar  turn 
with  Lydia  (ante,  Ode  13);  but  the  poet  does  not 
give  his  friend  the  benefit  of  that  experience,  which 
he  probably  would  have  done,  had  the  Ode  in 
question  been  founded  on  fact.  It  seems  idle  to 
attempt  to  connect  the  Glycera  of  this  Ode  with 
the  Glycera  of  Ode  19  of  the  same  Book,  or  of  Ode 
19,  Book  III. ;  or  the  Pholoe  here  mentioned  with 
the  Pholoe  of  Ode  5,  B.  II.,  or  15  ,  B.  III.  These 
were  no  doubt  merely  convenient  poetical  names. 
The  characters  they  indicate  are  typical,  and  the 
poet's  readers  would  be  at  no  loss  to  find  frail  beau- 
ties in  abundance  with  whom  to  identify  them. 
The  kind  of  consolation  suggested  in  this  Ode  was 
not  likely  to  soothe  the  sentimental  Tibullus.  u  The 
sight  of  lovers  feedeth  those  in  love,"  but  it  is  noth- 
ing to  a  lover  in  despair,  that  others  have  survived 
a  similar  ordeal.  "  Hang  up  philosophy,  unless 
philosophy  can  make  a  Juliet ! " 


NOTES  TO  BOOK  FIRST  OF  ODES.  319 

A  very  agreeable  picture  of  the  friendship  be- 
tween Horace  and  Tibullus  is  presented  in  the  fol- 
lowing Epistle  (4.  B.  I.)  addressed  to  the  latter  at 
his  country  seat  at  Pedum,  now  Zagarola,  a  small 
town  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Praeneste,  the  mod- 
ern Palestrina. 

Albius,  kind  critic  of  my  Satires,  how 
Shall  I  report  of  thee  as  busied  now, 
Down  there  in  Pedum  at  that  box  of  thine? 
Inditing  verses,  destined  to  outshine 
Cassius  of  Parma's  in  his  finest  moods  ? 
Or  sauntering  silent  through  the  healthful  woods, 
In  lonely  reveries  devising  what 
May  best  engage  a  wise  and  good  man's  thought  ? 
Thou  never  wert,  nor  art  thou,  friend,  to-day, 
A  mere  dull  mass  of  breathing  soulless  clay. 
The  gods  have  given  thee  beauty,  wealth,  and  skill 
To  use  and  to  enjoy  thy  gifts  at  will. 
What  more  or  better  for  her  darling  could 
Fond  nurse  desire,  than  that,  like  thee,  he  should 
Be  sage,  —  with  grace  whate'er  he  thinks  express, — 
And  that  to  him  in  all  his  aims  success, 
Renown,  and  health  should  bountifully  fall, 
A  board  well  served,  and  bins  well  stock'd  withal  ? 
'Twixt  hopes  and  tremors,  fears  and  frenzies  pass'd, 
Regard  each  day,  as  though  it  were  thy  last. 
So  shall  chance  seasons  of  delight  arise, 
And  overtake  thee  with  a  sweet  surprise. 
Come,  visit  me  !  Thou  'It  find  me  plump  and  fair, 
In  high  condition,  sleek  and  debonair, — 
Yea,  if  on  me  disposed  thy  wit  to  try, 
A  very  hog  of  Epicurus'  sty. 


ODE  XXXVII.  p.  93. 


This  Ode  appears  to  have  been  written,  soon 
after  the  tidings  of  the  death  of  Cleopatra  reached 


320         NOTES  TO  BOOK  FIRST  OF  ODES. 

Rome.  Modern  critics  have  discovered  that  she 
did  not  die  by  the  poison  of  asps.  What  do  they 
not  discover  ?  But  at  all  events,  it  is  clear,  that 
the  Romans,  with  Horace  at  their  head,  held  the 
common  faith,  which  Shakespeare  has  firmly  es- 
tablished for  all  true  Englishmen.  The  noble 
close  of  this  Ode  will  remind  the  English  reader  of 
the  lines,  which  they  may  perhaps  have  suggested, 
in  Mr.  Tennyson's  Dream  of  Fair  Women. 

I  died  a  queen.  The  Roman  soldier  found 
Me  lying  dead,  my  crown  about  my  brows, 

A  name  forever !  lying  robed  and  crown'd, 
Worthy  a  Roman  spouse. 

The  poem  alludes  both  to  the  battle  of  Actium 
B.  C.  31,  and  the  battle  at  Alexandria  in  the  fol- 
lowing year,  which  completed  the  defeat  of  Anthony 
and  his  royal  paramour. 


NOTES  TO  BOOK  SECOND  OE  ODES. 


ODE  I.  p.  99. 

Caius  Asinius  Pollio  was  in  his  youth  a  partisan 
of  C.  Julius  Csesar,  and  accompanied  him  on  his  in- 
vasion of  Italy  B.  C.  45.  He  also  fought  in  Africa 
against  king  Juba,  was  engaged  in  the  battle  of 
Pharsalia,  and  subsequently  in  a  campaign  in  Africa. 
In  B.  C.  44.  he  held  the  command  of  Farther  Spain. 
He  joined  the  triumvirs,  and  became  consul  in 
B.  C.  40.  In  the  following  year  he  overcame  the 
Parthini,  a  people  of  Dalmatia,  and  then  abandoned 
political  life.  He  was  an  early  patron  of  Virgil, 
who  speaks  of  his  tragedies  in  these  high  terms  : 

Sola  Sophocleo  tua  carmina  digna  cothurno. 

Eel.  VIII.  10. 

As  an  orator  he  was  distinguished,  and  not  less  so 
as  an  historian.  The  events  of  the  period  which  he 
had  selected  were  so  recent,  and  the  passions  of 
party  so  fierce,  that  Horace  gracefully  warns  him 
of  the  perils  of  his  task,  while  complimenting  him 
on  the  picturesque  force  with  which  he  is  certain  to 
execute  it.  It  is  clear,  from  the  terms  in  which 
Tacitus  (Ann.  IV.  34)  alludes  to  his  History,  that 
Pollio  spoke  fearlessly  in  praise  of  Cassius,  Brutras, 
and  other  enemies  of  Augustus. 

14*  1  U 


322  NOTES  TO  BOOK  SECOND  OF  ODES. 


Juno  and  ichosoe'er,  §*c.  Astarte,  the  queen  of 
heaven,  interpreted  by  the  Romans  as  Juno,  the 
tutelary  goddess  of  Carthage,  was  worshipped  by  the 
Rhenicians.  Dishonoured  and  driven  from  Car- 
thage by  the  successful  Romans,  the  goddess  retali- 
ates upon  them  by  the  slaughter  of  Romans  in 
Africa.  "  The  Romans,"  says  Mr.  Newman,  "  who 
fell  with  Curio  against  King  Juba  B.  C.  49,  and 
afterwards  at  Thapsus  against  Caesar,  are  here  said 
t£>  have  been  sacrificed  by  the  African  deities  to 
the  Spirit  of  Jugurtha." 

ODE  VI.  p.  109. 

Titius  Septimius,  an  old  companion  in  arms  of 
Horace,  possessed  an  estate  at  Tarentum,  where 
the  poet  visited  him  after  the  celebrated  journey 
to  Brundusium  (B.  C.  40)  the  details  of  which  form 
the  subject  of  the  Fifth  Satire  of  the  First  Book, 
and  on  other  occasions.  He  was  a  poet,  and  imi- 
tated Pindar  with  success.  (See  Horace's  Epistles, 
B.  I.  3.)  When  Tiberius  Claudius  Nero,  the  fu- 
ture Emperor,  was  preparing  to  set  out  on  his  east- 
ern campaign  in  B.  C.  23,  Horace  wrote  recom- 
mending his  friend  Septimius  to  his  notice  in  the 
following  terms.  (Epistles,  I.  9.)  This  epistle  is 
mentioned  as  a  judicious  specimen  of  what  an  intro- 
duction should  be,  in  a  paper  in  the  Spectator 
(No.  493). 

Septimius  only  understands,  't  would  seem, 
How  high  I  stand  in,  Claudius,  your  es-cem; 
For  when  he  begs  and  prays  me  day  by  day, 
Before  you  his  good  qualities  to  lay, 
As  one  who  not  unworthily  may  find 
A  place  in  Nero's  household,  Nero's  mind; 
When  he  supposes,  you  to  me  extend 
The  rights  and  place  of  a  familiar  friend, 


NOTES  TO  BOOK  SECOND  OF  ODES.  323 

Much  better  than  myself  he  sees  and  knows, 

How  far  with  you  my  commendation  goes. 

A  thousand  arguments  at  least  I 've  used, 

Why  from  this  office  I  should  go  excused, 

Yet  fear'd  the  while,  it  might  be  thought  I  feign'd 

Too  low  what  influence  I  perchance  have  gain'd ; 

Dissembling  it  as  nothing  with  my  friends, 

To  keep  it  solely  for  my  private  ends. 

Escaping  thus  the  heavier  disgrace, 

I  've  stoop'd  into  the  unblushing  suitor's  place. 

But  if  you  deem  it  worthy  some  applause, 

To  doff  my  bashfulness  in  friendship's  cause, 

Then  in  your  suite,  I  pray,  this  friend  enrol, 

And  trust  him  brave,  and  good,  and  true  of  soul. 

This  letter  of  introduction,  in  itself  a  master-piece 
of  tact,  obviously  had  the  desired  effect.  Septimius 
was  admitted  into  Claudius  Nero's  suite,  and  was 
serving  under  him  in  the  East,  when  Horace  wrote 
the  Epistle  (B.  I.  3)  to  Julius  Florus,  Nero's  sec- 
retary. 

ODE  VII.  p.  111. 

Whom  will  Venus  send  to  rule  our  revel?  The  allu- 
sion here  is  to  the  practice,  taken  by  the  Romans 
from  the  Greeks,  of  appointing  a  king  or  dictator  of 
the  feast,  who  prescribed  the  laws  of  the  feast, 
which  the  guests  were  bound,  under  penalties, 
to  obey.  Sometimes  this  office  was  assigned  to 
the  master  or  even  the  mistress  of  the  house,  but 
commonly  it  fell  to  such  of  the  guests  as  made  the 
highest  throw  of  the  dice,  which  was  called  Ve?ius, 
the  lowest  being  distinguished  as  Canis.  The  chair- 
man thus  selected  settled  the  number  of  cups  to  be 
drunk.  Bumpers  were  the  rule  and  no  heel-taps 
allowed.  He  was  entitled  to  call  upon  any  one  for 
a  song,  or  a  recitation,  and  kept  the  mirth  from  be- 
coming too  fast  and  furious.   Lipsius  records  fifteen 


324        NOTES  TO  BOOK  SECOND  OF  ODES. 

of  the  ordinary  laws  upon  such  occasions.  Ten 
bumpers  were  the  usual  allowance,  nine  in  honour 
of  the  Muses,  and  one  to  Apollo.  Every  gentle- 
man, who  had  a  mistress  was  to  toast  her,  when  re- 
quired. There  was  to  be  no  wrangling  or  noise,  — 
an  injunction  apt  to  be  slighted,  if  we  may  judge 
by  the  frequency  with  which  Horace  enforces  it. 
A  penalty  was  frequently  attached  to  requiring  a 
man  to  name  his  mistress,  which  was  somewhat  se- 
rious to  those  who,  like  Cassio,  had  "  poor  and  un- 
happy brains  for  drinking."  The  challenger  was 
bound  to  empty  a  cup  to  each  letter  of  the  lady's 
name.  Sometimes,  when  the  gallant  had  reasons 
for  secrecy,  he  merely  announced  the  number  of 
cups  which  had  to  be  drunk.  From  these  the  com- 
pany might  divine  her  name  if  they  could.  Thus 
six  cups  were  drunk  for  Naevia,  seven  for  Justina, 
five  for  Lycas,  four  for  Lyde,  three  for  Ida.  (Mar- 
tial. I,  7.  and  VIII,  51.  J  Most  of  these  practices  our 
grandfathers  revived  with  a  truly  Pagan  vigour. 

ODE  IX.  p.  114. 

C.  Valgius  Rufus  is  one  of  the  circle  of  valued 
friends,  whom  Horace  mentions  (I.  Sat.  X.  81). 
He  was  an  Epic  poet  and  rhetorician  of  great  emi- 
nence, of  whom  Tibullus,  or,  more  probably,  some 
rhetorician  of  a  more  recent  period,  says : 

Est  tibi  quipossit  magnis  se  accingere  rebus 
Valgius:  ceterno  propior  non  alter  Homero 

IV.  I.  179. 

Remember,  friend,  that  sage  old  man.  Nestor, 
whose  son  Antilochus,  while  defending  his  father, 
was  slain  by  Memnon.  The  slaughtered  Troilus  ; 
slain  by  Achilles.  —  He  was  the  brother  of  Poly* 
xena,  Cassandra,  &c,  daughters  of  Priam. 


NOTES  TO  BOOK  SECOND  OF  ODES. 


325 


ODE  XL  p.  118. 

And  bring  to  our  revel  that  charming  recluse.  It 
may  be  thought  that  the  "  devium  scortum  "  of  the 
original  is  too  much  softened  down  in  our  version. 
But  Horace  obviously  means  to  speak  of  this  young 
lady  playfully  and  kindly.  She  was  apparently 
coy  and  hard  to  be  got  hold  of,  —  not  ready  to  answer 
to  every  body's  call ;  —  and  "  shy  little  puss  "  may 
be  sustituted  for  "  charming  recluse  "  by  those  who 
adopt  this  view. 

What  boy,  then,  shall  best  in  the  brook's  deepest  pool 
Our  cup  of  the  fiery  Falernian  cool  f 

A  cupbearer,  who  was  master  of  the  art  of  cool- 
ing wine  to  the  right  point,  must  always  have  been 
in  request.  The  mixing  of  wine  with  water,  which 
was  the  constant  practice  of  the  Romans,  was  also 
probably  reduced  to  an  art,  of  which  their  attend- 
ants made  a  study.  Catullus  pays  a  glowing  trib- 
ute to  his  cupbearer  for  his  skill  in  serving  wine  — 
thus. 

Boy,  that  pours  as  none  else  can, 
The  bubbling  old  Falernian, 
Fill  our  goblets  —  theirs  and  mine  — 
With  the  very  mightiest  wine. 
Posthumia  is  our  queen  to-night. 
Brimming  cups  are  her  delight. 
Not  the  juice  that  courses  through 
The  vine,  and  gives  the  grape  its  hue, 
More  native  there,  than  is  the  bowl 
Congenial  to  her  festive  soul ! 

Take  the  water  hence,  my  boy, 
Death  to  wine,  and  death  to  joy  ! 
Deep-brow'd  sages,  they  may  quaff  if;, 
We  aside  shall  ever  daff  it. 
God  Lyasus,  none  but  he, 
In  our  mantling  cups  shall  be ! 


326       NOTES  TO  BOOK  SECOND  OF  ODES. 


ODE  XII.  p.  120. 

Some  critics,  following  Bentley,  suppose  the 
Licymnia  of  this  Ode  to  be  Maecenas's  Avife  Licinia 
Terentia.  A  stronger  illustration  could  scarcely 
be  conceived  of  the  extreme  lengths  into  which 
the  mania  for  identifying  Horace's  women  with 
real  personages  has  carried  scholars.  Licymnia 
was  much  more  probably  the  "  puella  "  mentioned 
in  the  Third  Epode.  It  was  quite  consistent  with 
Roman  manners  for  a  poet  to  write  thus  of  his 
friend's  mistress;  but  not  so  of  his  wife,  even 
although  the  tie  of  marriage,  as  in  Terentia's  case, 
was  of  the  loosest  possible  kind.  Maecenas  was 
continually  putting  her  away,  and,  forthwith,  un- 
able to  forget  her  fascinations,  taking  her  back 
again ;  which  gave  rise  to  the  saying,  recorded  by 
Seneca,  that  "  he  had  been  a  thousand  times  mar- 
ried, and  yet  never  had  but  one  wife."  In  the 
14th  Epode  Horace  again  alludes  to  Maecenas's 
mistress.  The  Roman  gentleman  seems  to  have 
had  as  little  scruple  as  a  modern  Parisian  in  bla- 
zoning his  amours  to  his  friends.  Nor,  if  we  may 
draw  the  natural  inference  both  from  these  poems 
of  Horace,  and  the  following  poem  by  Catullus, 
were  his  poetical  friends  at  all  averse  to  making 
them  the  themes  of  their  verse. 

Flavius,  if  you'd  have  them  shine, 
These  sub  rosd  joys  of  thine, 
With  a  fashionable  grace, 
Above  all  vulgar  commonplace, 
You'd  never  let  Catullus  doubt 
The  kind  of  sport  you  are  about. 
If  now  the  girl  were  handsome  !  But 
I  fear  me  she 's  a  sorry  slut  — 
A  common  thing,  and  this  is  why 
You  keep  your  secret  all  so  sly. 
Nay,  never  look  so  modest !  Own 
Your  evenings  are  not  spent  alone. 


NOTES  TO  BOOK  SECOND  OF  ODES.  327 

You  chaste  as  Dian  !    O,  no,  no  ! 

Why  keep  you,  then,  your  chamber  so  ? 

And  whence  this  rich  distilFd  perfume 

Of  roses,  filling  ail  the  room  ? 

And,  as  1  live,  a  tiny  pair 

Of  slippers  underneath  the  chair ! 

All  these  too  plainly  tell  the  tale, 

E'en  though  your  cheeks  were  not  so  pale : 

And  so  you'd  best  confess  outright ; 

Be  she  a  beauty,  or  a  fright, 

I  care  not !    Only  let  me  know  it, 

I'm  ready  to  become  her  poet, 

And  deify,  with  verses  rare, 

You  and  your  little  love  affair ! 

This  reminds  one  of  the  famous  screen  scene  in 
The  School  for  Scandal,  with  the  little  French  mil- 
liner, and  Sir  Peter  Teazle's  "  I  '11  swear  I  saw  a 
petticoat !  sly  rogue,  sly  rogue  ! " 


ODE  XIII.  p.  122. 

Although  the  tone  of  this  Ode  is  half-sportive, 
the  incident  it  records  appears  to  have  impressed 
Horace  deeply.  •  He  alludes  to  it  again  on  two 
several  occasions  (B.  II.  Ode  17.  and  B.  III.  Ode 
4.)  in  the  most  serious  terms,  and  a  third  time,  in 
B.  Ill  Ode  8,  we  find  him  celebrating  the  anni- 
versary of  his  escape  on  the  Kalends  of  March  by 
the  sacrifice  of  a  snow-white  goat  to  Bacchus. 


ODE  XVIII.  p.  132. 

Nor  Attains*  imperial  chair  Have  I  nsurp'd,  &c. 
The  poet  is  here  supposed  to  allude  to  Aristonicus 
the  illegitimate  son  of  Attalus,  who  usurped  the 
kingdom,  which  had  been  bequeathed  by  Attalus 


328        NOTES  TO  BOOK  SECOND  OF  ODES. 

to  the  Romans,  but  was  expelled  by  them  under 
Perpenna  B.  C.  129.  Laconian  purples.  Wools 
dyed  with  the  murex,  which  produced  the  celebra- 
ted purple,  and  was  found,  among  other  places,  at 
Taenaron  in  Laconia. 


ODE  XIX.  p.  134. 

Now  may  I  chant  her  honours,  too,  thy  bride,  Sec. 
The  allusion  is  to  Ariadne,  and  the  golden  crown 
given  to  her  by  Bacchus,  and  which,  after  her 
death,  was  translated  to  the  skies,  where  it  is  rep- 
resented by  the  nine  stars  forming  the  Corona 
Borealis.  —  The  Halls  of  Pentheus  shattered  in  their 
pride.  Pentheus,  king  of  Thebes,  having  opposed 
the  Bacchanalian  orgies,  was  torn  in  pieces  by  the 
Bacchanalian  women.  —  And  of  Lycurgus  the  disas- 
trous story.  The  story  of  Lycurgus  of  Thrace  is 
variously  told.  He  drove  the  Maenads  across  Nysa, 
for  which  he  was  blinded  by  Jupiter  (Iliad  VI.  130) 
or,  according  to  Sophocles  (Antigone  955),  shut  up 
in  a  cave.  According  to  later  legends,  he  was 
driven  mad  by  Bacchus,  because  of  his  having  cut 
down  the  vines,  and  in  his  frenzy  killed  his  son 
Dryas,  and  mutilated  himself.  The  allusion  in  the 
last  verse  of  the  Ode  is  to  the  descent  of  Bacchus 
into  Tartarus,  from  which  he  brought  up  his  moth- 
er Semele  and  led  her  to  Olympus,  where  she  took 
her  place  under  the  name  of  Thyone. 


NOTES  TO  BOOK  THIED  01  ODES 


ODE  I.  p.  141. 

The  Pindaric  Verse,  introduced  by  Cowley,  and 
carried  by  Dryden  to  perfection,  has  been  adopted 
in  translating  this  Ode,  the  14th  Ode  of  the 
Fourth  Book,  and  the  Secular  Hymn,  as  the  only 
measure  in  which  the  requisite  freedom  of  move- 
ment could  be  attained  for  grappling  with  the 
originals.  This  verse,  whilst  in  some  respects  it 
tempts  to  amplification,  is  favourable  to  closeness  in 
others,  inasmuch  as  the  translator  is  not  tied  down 
as  in  our  ordinary  stanza  to  a  regularly  recurring 
rhyme.  Dryden  with  his  usual  mastery  of  critical 
exposition  has  said  all  that  can  be  said  of  this  noble 
form  of  verse.  "  For  variety,  or  rather  where  the 
majesty  of  thought  requires  it,  the  numbers  may  be 
stretched  to  the  English  Heroic  of  five  feet,  and  to 
the  French  Alexandrine  of  six.  But  the  ear  must 
preside,  and  direct  the  judgment  to  the  choice 
of  numbers.  Without  the  nicety  of  this  the  har- 
mony of  Pindaric  verse  can  never  be  complete ; 
the  cadency  of  one  line  must  be  a  rule  to  that  of  the 
next ;  and  the  sound  of  the  former  must  slide  gently 
into  that  which  follows,  without  leaping  from  one  ex- 
treme into  another.  It  must  be  done  like  the  shadow- 
ings  of  a  picture,  which  fall  by  degrees  into  a  darker 
colour/' 


330  NOTES  TO  BOOK  THIRD  OF  ODES 


ODE  V.  p.  153. 

Has  any  legionary,  who  His  falchion  under  Cras- 
sus  drew,  &c.  The  defeat  of  the  Romans  under 
Crassus  (B.  C.  53)  by  the  Parthians,  was  one  of 
the  most  signal  disgraces  ever  sustained  by  the  Ro- 
man arms.  Their  standards  fell  into  the  hands  of 
the  enemy,  and  many  of  the  Roman  prisoners  had 
accepted  their  fate,  married  Parthian  women,  and 
become  the  subjects  of  a  Parthian  king.  This,  as 
the  Ode  intimates,  was  felt  to  be  a  blot  upon  the 
national  honour.  At  the  time  this  Ode  was  written 
Augustus  was  no  doubt  projecting  a  campaign  to 
recover  the  standards,  and  retrieve  the  defeat, 
which,  despite  the  lapse  of  thirty  years,  still  ran- 
kled with  peculiar  bitterness  in  the  Roman  mind. 
This  object  was  subsequently  achieved  by  treaty 
(B.  C.  23),  when  Augustus  seized  the  opportunity 
of  an  embassy  from  Phraates  to  Rome,  to  treat  for 
the  surrender  of  his  son,  then  a  hostage  in  the 
hands  of  Augustus,  to  stipulate  for  the  delivery  of 
the  captured  standards  and  the  surviving  prisoners. 
Many  of  the  latter  killed  themselves,  rather  than 
return,  probably  either  from  grief  at  the  disruption 
of  the  ties  they  had  formed,  or  in  apprehension  of 
being  dealt  with  by  Augustus  as  deserters. 

ODE  VTL  p.  159. 

To  Asterie.  Whether  this  lady  was  the  mistress 
or  wife  of  Gyges  is  not  very  clear.  The  fact,  that 
Enipeus  was  in  the  habit  of  serenading  under  her 
windows,  rather  points  to  the  former  conclusion. 
These  serenades,  practised  by  the  Greeks,  and  by 
them  called  paraclausithura,  were  a  common  re- 
source of  the  Roman  gallants.  A  specimen  of  one 
occurs  in  Ode  X.  of  this  Book.  —  In  this  respect 


NOTES  TO  BOOK  THIRD  OF  ODES. 


331 


manners  had  undergone  little  change  in  Italy,  when, 
almost  in  the  words  of  Horace,  Shylock  laid  this 
injunction  upon  Jessica  : 

Lock  up  my  doors ;  and  when  you  hear  the  drum, 
And  the  vile  squeaking  of  the  wry-nectfd  Jife, 
Clamber  not  you  up  to  the  casement  then, 
Nor  thrust  your  head  into  the  public  street. 

Bithynia,  the  modern  Anatolia,  to  which  Gyges 
had  gone,  was  the  emporium  of  the  commerce  of 
Asia  Minor  and  all  the  rich  Greek  colonies  on  the 
shores  of  the  Black  Sea.  He  has  been  compelled 
to  put  in  at  Oricum,  (the  modern  Erikho)  in  Epi- 
rus,  to  wait  for  the  finer  weather  of  spring.  Aste- 
rie,  Horace  seems  to  surmise,  has  begun  to  indicate, 
that  she  is  not  altogether  inconsolable. 

ODE  X.  p.  164. 

To  Lyce.  This  Lady  has  been  assumed  to  be  one 
of  Horace's  many  mistresses,  upon  what  appear  to 
be  very  insufficient  grounds.  The  poem  is  more 
like  a  jeu  d'esprit,  than  a  serious  appeal  —  a  mere 
quiz  upon  the  serenades  of  forlorn  lovers.  How 
like  is  the  picture  it  presents  to  that  in  Lydia  Lan- 
guish's confession  to  her  friend  Julia  !  "  How  mor- 
tifying, to  remember  the  dear  delicious  shifts  one 
used  to  be  put  to,  to  gain  half  a  minute's  conversa- 
tion with  this  fellow  !  How  often  have  I  stole  forth, 
in  the  coldest  night  in  January,  and  found  him  in  the 
garden,  stuck  like  a  dripping  statue!  There  would 
he  kneel  to  me  in  the  scow,  and  cough  so  patheti- 
cally !  he  shivering  with  cold  and  I  with  apprehen- 
sion !  And  while  the  freezing  blast  numbed  our 
joints,  how  warmly  would  he  press  me  to  pity  his 
flame,  and  glow  with  mutual  ardour  !  —  Ah,  Julia, 
that  was  something  like  being  in  love  ! "  But  there 
was  no  drop  of  "  the  blood  of  the  Absolutes  "  in 
the  veins  of  the  little  bard  of  Venusia. 


332         NOTES  TO  BOOK  THIRD  OP  ODES. 

ode  xm.  p.  171. 

To  the  Bandusian  Fountain.  The  situation  of 
the  fountain  ennobled  in  this  Ode  is  still  disputed. 
Lombardi,  Fea,  Walckenaer,  and  the  Dean  of  St. 
Paul's  assert,  that  it  was  at  Palazzo,  six  miles  from 
Yenusia.  Others  maintain  that  it  was  in  the  Val- 
ley of  Licenza  near  the  "  Sabine  Farm,"  but  differ 
as  to  the  identification  of  the  particular  spring.  In 
defence  of  the  former  theory  it  is  alleged,  that  the 
village  of  Palazzo  was  anciently  called  "  Bandu- 
sium,"  and  that,  in  some  documents  found  in  a 
neighbouring  monastery,  and  dated  A.  D.  1103, 
mention  is  made  of  the  "  Fons  Bandusinus  apud 
Venusiam."  Admitting  the  existence  and  genu- 
ineness of  the  document,  —  a  large  admission,  when 
we  call  to  mind  the  countless  forgeries  of  Italian 
antiquaries,  —  what  is  there  to  prove  that  this  was 
not  a  fancy  name  given  to  the  fountain  in  question 
in  honour  of  Horace's  Ode  ?  It  was  just  what  the 
monks  would  do,  especially  Venusian  monks,  proud 
of  their  countryman  Horace,  and  anxious  that  their 
spring  should  become  one  "  nobilium  fontium" 
Again,  no  other  Ode  of  the  3d  Book  was  written 
(so  far  as  we  can  judge)  earlier  than  725  A.  U.  C. 
and  it  is  quite  certain  that  Horace's  connection 
with  Yenusia  and  its  neighbourhood  was  broken  off 
by  the  confiscation  of  his  paternal  farm  in  712, 
when  he  returned  to  Rome  "  inops  paterni  et  laris  et 
fundi."  There  is  no  hint  given  of  any  restoration 
of  the  property,  or  of  his  ever  having  returned  to 
live  at  Yenusia  ;  on  the  contrary,  Ave  know  that 
after  this  period  he  lived  chiefly  at  Rome,  passing 
the  villegiatura  at  his  Sabine  farm  or  at  Tivoli.  In 
his  occasional  visits  to  Tarentum  he  probably  passed 
near,  or  even  through,  Yenusia,  but  he  nowhere 
speaks  of  it,  except  with  reference  to  the  incidents 
of  his  childhood  and  boyhood.  It  is  clear,  however, 
that  the  Fons  Bandusiae  was  a  favourite  haunt  of 


NOTES  TO  BOOK  THIRD  OF  ODES.  333 

his,  near  the  pastures  where  his  sheep  and  goats 
were  feeding,  and  the  furrows  which  his  oxen  were 
ploughing.  I  regard  it,  therefore,  as  almost  certain 
that  the  fountain  was  on  his  Sabine  Farm.  That 
this  farm  was  in  the  Valley  of  Licenza  is  undoubted, 
and  the  remains  of  a  Roman  Villa  at  the  head  of 
the  valley  very  probably  mark  the  site  of  that  which 
belonged  to  Horace.  Perhaps  the  most  elaborate, 
as  well  as  most  recent  account  of  the  site  is  that 
given  by  Mr.  Dennis  in  a  letter  printed  by  Dean 
Milman  in  his  Edition  of  Horace  (London,  Mur- 
ray, 1849).  I  have  gone  carefully  over  the  same 
ground,  and  can  confirm  the  accuracy  of  Mr.  Den- 
nis's general  description.  I  differ  from  him,  how- 
ever, in  one  or  two  points,  especially  as  to  the 
situation  of  the  fountain  of  Bandusia.  This  he 
identifies  with  a  spring  in  the  rugged  bed  of  a 
stream,  dry  in  summer,  which  comes  down  from 
Lucretiles.  In  search  of  the  spot,  I  was  conducted 
(on  the  23d  of  September,  1858)  by  a  peasant  to 
what  he  affirmed,  to  be  generally  known  by  the 
name  of  the  "  Fonte  Blandusi,"  on  the  left  bank  of 
the  above-mentioned  torrent,  where  a  little  runlet 
of  water  trickled  out  from  a  grassy  bank  overhung 
with  a  wild  fig-tree.  Finding  that  this  by  no  means 
corresponded  with  Mr.  Dennis's  description,  I  ex- 
pressed my  doubts,  when  my  guide  at  once  admit- 
ted that,  though  travellers  were  usually  content 
with  that  "  Fonte  Blandusi,"  yet  that  "  il  vero  fonte" 
was  half  a  mile  further  up.  Accordingly,  clamber- 
ing up  a  very  rugged  path,  we  came  at  last  to  the 
"  exquisitely  Arcadian  "  spot  described  by  Mr.  Den- 
nis, but,  alas  !  the  fountain  was  dry!  And  this  after 
our  rough  scramble  of  two  miles  from  the  villa. 
Surely  this  cannot  be  the 

Tecto  vicinus  jugis  aquae  fons, 

which  the  poet  wished  for,  and  got. 


334  NOTES  TO  BOOK  THIRD  OF  ODES. 

There  is,  however,  within  a  few  hundred  yards 
of  the  villa,  a  most  abundant  spring,  "  rive  dare 
nomen  idoneus,"  called  "  Fonte  della  Corte,"  which 
I  suppose  to  be  the  same  as  that  which  was  called 
in  Eustace's  time  Fonte  Bello.  Near  it  are  the 
ruins  of  a  house  called  "  la  Corte,"  the  owners  of 
which,  in  the  1 7th  century  probably,  by  building  a 
wall  some  distance  below  where -the  spring,  clear 
and  cold,  at  nec  Frlgidior  Thracarn  nec  purior  am- 
biat  Flebrus,  bursts  out  from  the  steep  hill  side  have 
made  an  artificial  cascade.  The  ground  about  is 
now  cultivated,  but  I  see  no  reason  why  the  foun- 
tain in  its  natural  state  may  not  have  corresponded 
exactly  with  the  description  of  the  poet,  and  leaped 
from  rock  to  rock  beneath  overshadowing  holm- 
oaks.  A  little  further  down  towards  Rocca  Giovine 
are  some  fields  called  "  gli  Oraziani "  (probably  a 
modern  fancy  name,)  where  is  another  fountain,  but 
too  scanty  to  dispute  the  title  of  Fons  Bandusiae 
with  the  Fonte  della  Corte. 

Let  me  add,  that  my  guide  said,  that  the  Fonte 
della  Corte  was  also  called  "  Fonte  Blandusi."  In 
fact,  they  are  quite  ready  to  give  the  name  to 
whichever  fountain  the  traveller  pleases  ! 

For  the  above  note,  as  for  many  most  valuable 
suggestions  during  the  passage  of  these  sheets 
through  the  press,  I  am  indebted  to  my  friend  the 
Rev.  W.  G.  Clark,  Public  Orator  in  the  University 
of  Cambridge. 

ODE  XIV.  p.  172. 

To  the  Romans.  This  Ode  was  written  apparently 
in  anticipation  of  the  return  of  Augustus  to  Rome, 
at  the  conclusion  of  his  victorious  campaign  in 
Spain,  B.  C.  25.  Livia  Drusilla,  his  wife,  and  Oc- 
tavia  his  sister,  the  widow  of  Marc  Antony,  are 
summoned  to  lead  the  procession  to  the  temples  for 
a  public  thanksgiving;  while  the  poet  resolves  to 


NOTES  TO  BOOK  THIRD  OF  ODES.  335 

make  merry  over  wine,  which,  if  we  are  to  construe 
literally  the  allusion  to  the  Marsic  war  in  B.  C.  91  - 
98,  was  at  least  sixty-four  years  old.  This  wine  was 
old  even  at  the  time  of  the  insurrection,  B.  C.  73- 
72,  of  gladiators  and  slaves  under  Spartacus,  whose 
marauding  clutch  Horace  intimates  it  could  scarcely 
have  escaped.  It  is  contended  that  the  Neaera  of 
this  Ode  is  the  Neaera  of  the  15th  Epode,  with  whom 
Horace  there  remonstrates  for  her  infidelity,  and 
that  the  concluding  lines  indicate  that  in  the  clays 
of  Plancus's  consulate  (B.  C.  42),  when  Horace's 
was  twenty-four,  he  would  have  knocked  down  that 
lady's  porter,  if  he  had  given  him  a  surly  answer. 
That  he  would  "in  his  hot  youth"  have  handled 
roughly  the  concierge  of  that  Neaera,  or  any  other 
lady  of  her  profession,  is  most  probable.  But  the 
Neaera  of  the  15th  Epode  was  by  this  time  seven- 
teen years  older  at  least ;  and  there  was  no  such 
dearth  of  younger  beauties  of  her  class  as  to  com- 
pel us  to  conclude,  that  she  and  she  only  could  be 
the  Neaera  here  referred  to. 

ODE  XVI.  p.  175. 

Argos'  augur.  Amphiaraus.  For  his  story  see 
Smith's  Die.  of  Greek  and  Roman  Biography,  V.  I 
p.  148.  —  9Twas  by  bribes  the  Macedonian,  &c.  It 
was  a  boast  of  Philip  of  Macedon,  that  he  could 
take  any  fortress  into  which  an  ass  could  mount 
laden  with  gold.  —  Our  bluffiest  navy  captains.  It  is 
generally  considered,  that  a  sarcasm  is  here  directed 
against  Menas,  the  freedman  of  Pompey  the  Great, 
and  the  Admiral  of  Sextus  Pompeius,  who  alter- 
nately betrayed  both  parties,  and  was  ultimately 
made  Tribunus  Militum  by  Augustus  for  his  traitor- 
ous services.  See  Epode  IV.,  where  he  is  merci- 
lessly scourged.  —  The  realms  of  Alyattes  wedded  to 
Mygdonia's  plains.  Lydia.  Alyattes  was  the  father 
of  Croesus,  proverbial  for  his  wealth,  and  by  Mygdo- 
nia's  plains  Horace  understands  Phrygia. 


336  NOTES  TO  BOOK  THIRD  OF  ODES. 

The  sentiment  of  the  concluding  part  of  this  (Me 
has  been  embodied  with  truly  Horatian  spirit  in  the 
following  beautiful  song  in  the  old  play  of  The  Pa- 
tient Grissell  by  Dekker,  Chettle,  and  Haughton. 

SWEET  CONTENT. 

Art  thou  poor,  yet  hast  thou  golden  slumbers  ? 

O,  sweet  content ! 
Art  thou  rich,  yet  in  thy  mind  perplexed  ? 

O,  punishment ! 
Dost  thou  laugh  to  see,  how  fools  are  vexed, 
To  add  to  golden  numbers  golden  numbers  ? 

O,  sweet  content ! 

Canst  drink  the  waters  of  the  crisped  spring  ? 

O,  sweet  content ! 
Swim  'st  thou  in  wealth,  yet  sink  'st  in  thine  own 
tears  ? 

O,  punishment ! 
Then  he  that  patiently  want's  burden  bears, 
No  burden  bears,  but  is  a  king,  a  king ! 

O,  sweet  content ! 


ODE  XVII.  p.  178. 

To  JElius  Lamia.  This  is  the  same  Lucius  JElius 
Lamia,  to  whom  the  Ode  I.  26  is  addressed.  This 
family  claimed  for  their  ancestor  Lamus,  king  of 
the  Laestrygones,  who  is  said  by  tradition  to  have 
founded  Formise.  The  ode  reads  like  a  little 
friendly  note,  sent  to  Lamia  by  the  poet  on  the  eve 
of  some  family  holiday. 

ODE  XXI.  p.  183. 

To  a  jar  of  wine.  This  joyous  panegyric  of  the 
virtues  of  wine  will  hold  its  own  against  anything 


NOTES  TO  BOOK  THIRD  OF  ODES.  337 

which  has  been  written  on  the  subject.  Horace's 
views  were  akin  to  those  of  The  Preacher  —  "  Give 
him  strong  drink  who  is  ready  to  perish,  and  wine 
unto  those  that  be  of  heavy  heart.  Let  him  drink 
and  forget  his  poverty,  and  remember  his  poverty 
no  more.5'  Burns  in  his  own  vigorous  way  echos 
unconsciously  the  very  words  of  Horace  ! 

Food  fills  the  wame,  and  keeps  us  livin,' 
Though  life's  a  gift  no  worth  receivin,' 
When  heavy  dragg'd  wi'  pine  and  grievin' ; 

But,  oiled  by  thee, 
The  wheels  o'  life  gae  down-hill  scrievm' 

Wi'  rattlin'  glee. 

Thou  clears  the  head  o'  doited  lair, 
Thou  cheers  the  heart  o'  drooping  care, 
Thou  strings  the  nerves  o'  labour  sair 

At 's  weary  toil ; 
Thou  even  brightens  dark  despair 

Wi'  gloomy  smile. 


ODE  XXvTI.  p.  193. 

To  Galatea.  The  lady,  to  whom  this  beautiful 
Ode  is  addressed  appears  to  have  been  some  Bo- 
man  matron  of  Horace's  acquaintance,  about  to 
visit  Greece  The  allusion  to  the  evil  omens 
remind  us,  with  what  tenacity  superstition  clings 
to  the  human  mind;  when  we  see  that  neither 
revelation  nor  science  have  yet  extinguished  the 
belief  in  many  of  those  to  which  Horace  refers. 
The  transition  to  the  story  of  Europa  is  abrupt, 
according  to  our  notions ;  but  a  reference  to  this 
triumphant  beauty's  troubles  and  glory  was  an 
implicit  compliment  to  the  beauty  and  attractions 
of  Galatea. 

15  v 


338         NOTES  TO  BOOK  THIRD  OF  ODES. 

Place  me,  ye  gods,  in  righteous  wrath, 
Naked  upon  the  lion's  path,  Sfc.    p.  195. 

This  appeal  seems  to  have  been  a  kind  of  "  com- 
mon form  "  in  Roman  poetry.  One  of  the  most 
noticeable  instances  in  which  it  occurs  is  in  what 
Mr.  Tennyson  calls  "  that  Latin  song  I  learned  at 
school,"  in  which  Love  is  made  to  "  Sneeze  out  a 
full  God-bless  you  right  and  left,"  —  Catullus's 

ACME  AND  SEPTIMIUS. 

Septimius,  holding  on  his  breast 
Acme,  thus  the  maid  addressed :  — 
"  Acme,  if  I  love  thee  not 
Dearly  as  my  dearest  thought, 
Nor  will  love  thee,  love  thee  still 
With  a  love  years  shall  not  chill, 
May  I,  sweet,  on  Lybia's  sand, 
Or  in  India's  burning  land, 
In  my  solitary  path 
Meet  the  tawny  lion's  wrath  !  " 

As  thus  he  spoke,  Love,  who  was  near, 
Listening  with  attentive  ear, 
Heard  him  his  devotion  plight, 
And  sneezed  propitious  on  the  right. 

Then  Acme,  with  a  gentle  grace 
Bending  back  her  rosy  face, 
Kissed  the  eyes  of  that  sweet  boy, 
That  swam  beneath  her  lips  with  joy. 
"  Septimius,  my  life,"  she  cries, 
"  Thine  is  the  only  heart  I  prize  ; 
And  this,  and  this,  my  witness  be, 
That  thou  art  all  in  all  to  me ! 
For  fondly  as  thy  heart  may  beat, 
In  mine  there  glows  a  fiercer  heat, 
And  mightier  is  the  flame  that  reigns 
Through  all  your  own  fond  Acme's  veins." 

As  thus  she  spoke,  Love,  who  was  near, 
Listening  with  attentive  ear, 


NOTES  TO  BOOK  THIRD  OF  ODES.  339 


And  heard  her  thus  her  passion  plight, 
Sneezed  propitious  on  the  right. 

With  such  fair  omens  blest,  the  twain 
Love,  and  are  fondly  loved  again. 
Septimius  prizes  Acme's  smiles 
Above  the  East,  or  Britain's  Isles ; 
By  faithful  Acme  is  her  lord 
With  all  her  early  love  adored. 
Were  ever  pair  so  blest  as  these 
By  Venus'  brightest  auspices ! 


ODE  XXIX.  p.  197. 

This  Ode  will  probably  always  be  read  in  Eng- 
lish in  Dry  den's  noble  version,  which,  as  a  whole, 
is  certainly  finer  than  the  original.  The  following 
passage,  of  which  a  faint  suggestion  only  is  to  be 
found  in  Horace,  is  highly  characteristic  of  the 
genius  of  Dry  den,  and  his  peculiar  mastery  of  the 
great  rhythmical  resources  of  our  language. 

Happy  the  man,  and  happy  he  alone, 
He,  who  can  call  to-day  his  own ; 
He,  who,  secure  within,  can  say. 
To-morrow  do  thy  worst,  for  I  have  lived  to-day. 
Be  fair,  or  foul,  or  rain,  or  shine, 
The  joys  I  have  possessed,  in  spite  of  fate,  are  mine. 

Not  heaven  itself  upon  the  past  has  power  ; 
But  what  has  been,  has  been,  and  I  have  had  my 
hour. 

Fortune,  that  with  malicious  joy 

Does  man  her  slave  oppress, 
Proud  of  her  office  to  destroy, 

Is  seldom  pleased  to  bless : 

Still  various,  and  unconstant  still, 
But  with  an  inclination  to  be  ill, 

Promotes,  degrades,  delights  in  strife, 

And  makes  a  lottery  of  life. 


340  NOTES  TO  BOOK  THIRD  OF  ODES. 

I  can  enjoy  her  while  she 's  kind ; 
But  when  she  dances  in  the  wind, 

And  shakes  her  wings,  and  will  not  stay, 

I  puff  the  prostitute  away  ; 
The  little  or  the  much  she  gave  is  quietly  resign 'd ; 

Content  with  poverty  my  soul  I  arm ; 

And  virtue,  though  in  rags,  will  keep  me  warm. 

Nor  always  from  afar  survey,  fyc.  From  Maece- 
nas's palace  on  the  Esquiline  hill,  he  could  com- 
mand a  view  of  Tibur,  the  modern  Tivoli,  iEsula. 
(the  site  of  which  is  unknown,  but  which  probably 
lay  between  Prseneste  and  Tibur,)  and  Tusculum, 
built  on  a  hill  above  the  modern  Frascati,  and  said 
to  have  been  founded  by  Telegonus,  son  of  Circe 
by  Ulysses,  whom  he  slew  in  ignorance  of  the  fact 
of  his  paternity.  The  "  Circean  walls  of  Tusculum  ** 
are  again  referred  to  in  the  First  Epode. 


NOTES  TO  BOOK  FOUBTH  OP  ODES 


ODE  I.  p.  205. 

The  pains  of  Love.  This  Ode  has  been  for  the 
most  part  so  admirably  rendered  by  Ben  Jonson, 
that  only  such  alterations  have  been  made  upon  his 
version  as  were  necessary  to  bring  it  into  harmony 
with  the  modern  diction  of  the  other  translations. 


ODE  III.  p.  210. 

Julius  Scaliger  said  of  this  Ode,  and  the  Amoe^ 
bean  Ode,  (Book  III.  9,)  that  he  would  rather  have 
written  them  than  be  king  of  Arragon. 

The  following  version  by  Bishop  Atterbury  holds 
a  high  place  among  Horatian  translations. 

He  on  whose  natal  hour  the  queen 

Of  verse  hath  smiled,  shall  never  grace 
The  Isthmian  gauntlet,  or  be  seen 

First  in  the  famed  Olympian  race. 
He  shall  not,  after  toils  of  war, 

And  taming  haughty  monarchs'  pride, 
With  laurell'd  brows  conspicuous  far 

To  Jove's  Tarpeian  temple  ride. 
But  him  the  streams  which  warbling  flow 

Rich  Tibur's  fertile  vales  along,  • 


342       NOTES  TO  BOOK  FOURTH  OF  ODES. 

And  shady  groves,  Ids  haunts,  shall  know 

The  master  of  the  iEolian  song. 
The  sons  of  Rome,  majestic  Rome, 

Have  placed  me  in  the  poets'  quire, 
And  envy  now,  or  dead,  or  dumb, 

Forbears  to  blame  what  they  admire. 
Goddess  of  the  sweet-sounding  lute, 

Which  thy  harmonious  touch  obeys, 
Who  mak'st  the  finny  race,  though  mute, 

The  cygnet's  dying  accent  raise, 
Thy  gift  it  is,  that  all  with  ease 

Me  prince  of  Roman  lyrists  own ; 
That,  while  I  live,  my  numbers  please, 

If  pleasing,  is  thy  gift  alone. 


ODE  IV.  p.  211. 

The  Praises  of  Drusus.  Drusus  was  the  son 
of  Tiberius  Claudius  Nero  and  his  wife  Livia,  and 
was  born  three  months  after  Livia,  who  had  been 
divorced  by  Nero,  had  been  married  to  Augustus. 
His  elder  brother  Tiberius,  by  the  same  father,  was 
adopted  by  Augustus,  but  Drusus  was  not,  as  though 
with  the  view  of  giving  the  lie  to  the  current  scan- 
dal, that  an  intimacy  had  subsisted  between  Livia 
and  Augustus  before  her  divorce  from  Claudius 
Nero.  Of  the  two,  Drusus  was,  however,  most  in 
favour  with  Augustus.  He  possessed,  according  to 
Velleius  Paterculus  (II.  97),  every  natural  endow- 
ment, carried  by  culture  to  perfection.  He  was 
only  twenty-three  years  old,  when  he  achieved  the 
great  victory  celebrated  in  this  Ode.  The  Vincle- 
lici,  who  occupied  that  part  of  modern  Bavaria 
which  lies  between  the  Tyrol  and  the  Lech  and  its 
tributaries,  had  formed  an  alliance  with  the  Rhseti, 
a  race  of  wild  mountaineers,  who  occupied  the  Ty- 
rol, the  Vorarlberg,  and  the  Grisons.  They  were 
in  the  habit  of  making  descents  upon  the  plains  of 


NOTES  TO  BOOK  FOURTH  OF  ODES.  343 

northern  Italy,  for  purposes  of  plunder  and  destruc- 
tion. Drusus  forced  his  way  through  the  passes  of 
the  Tyrolese  Alps  and  defeated  them ;  while  his 
brother  Tiberius,  crossing  the  Lake  of  Constance, 
made  a  diversion,  which  enabled  Drusus  to  com- 
plete their  overthrow.  All  the  young  men  of  the 
enemy,  who  were  not  slain,  were  carried  prisoners 
to  Rome,  only  such  of  the  population  being  left 
behind  as  were  necessary  for  the  tillage  of  the  soil. 
The  victory  was  complete  and  conclusive.  Augus- 
tus is  said  to  have  prescribed  the  theme  of  this  Ode 
to  the  poet,  who  executed  his  task  with  consum- 
mate skill.  Through  both  their  parents,  Tiberius 
and  Drusus  were  descended  from  both  the  consuls, 
Livius  and  Nero,  who  defeated  Hasdrubal  at  the 
Metaurus,  B.  C.  207,  —  a  circumstance  which  the 
poet  has  turned  to  excellent  advantage. 


ODE  V.  p.  215. 

The  husband  in  the  child  we  trace.  This  evidence 
of  the  chastity  of  the  mother  is  greatly  insisted  on 
in  Greek  and  Roman  poetry.  The  following  amus- 
ing anecdote  is  told  by  Macrobius.  A  provincial, 
who  had  gone  to  Rome  on  business,  drew  crowds 
after  him  by  his  great  resemblance  to  Augustus. 
The  emperor,  hearing  of  this,  had  him  sent  for,  and 
struck  by  the  likeness,  asked  him,  "  Young  man, 
was  your  mother  ever  in  Rome  ?  "  "  Never,"  re- 
plied the  provincial,  "  but  my  father  often  was." 

ODE  XII.  p.  229 

Now  buildeth  her  nest,  Sfc.  Procne,  daughter  of 
Pandion  son  of  Cecrops,  and  wife  of  Tereus,  king 
of  Thrace,  killed  her  son  Itys,  and  served  his  heart 
up  to  his  father,  in  revenge  for  the  brutal  lust  and 


344       NOTES  TO  BOOK  FOURTH  OF  ODES. 

cruelty  of  Tereus,  who  bad  ravished  her  sister  Phi- 
lomela, and  then  cut  out  her  tongue.  u  The  sad 
bird  "  is  Procne,  who  was  transformed  into  a 
swallow. 

And  thirst,  ah  my  Virgil,  fyc.  This  invitation  of 
the  poet  Virgil  to  dinner  was  written  probably 
soon  after  Horace's  return  from  Greece  to  Rome, 
and  when  Virgil,  already  backed  by  powerful 
friends,  was  much  better  off  than  himself.  Choice 
perfumes  were  as  indispensable  to  a  Roman's  en- 
joyment of  a  feast  as  choice  wines.  They  were 
costly,  and  Horace  requires  Virgil  to  contribute 
this  part  of  the  essentials  of  their  carouse.  Catul- 
lus, in  much  the  same  strain,  invites  his  friend 
Fabullus  to  dinner,  promising  to  find  the  perfume, 
an  condition  that  Fabullus  brings  with  him  all  the 
:>ther  requisites,  —  thus  : 

You  dine  with  me,  dear  Argentine, 

On  Friday  next,  at  half  past  two ; 
And  I  can  promise  that  you  '11  dine 

As  well  as  man  need  wish  to  do  ; 
If  you  bring  with  you,  when  you  come, 

A  dinner  of  the  very  best, 
And  lots  of  wine,  and  mirth,  and  some 

Fair  girl,  to  give  the  whole  a  zest. 
?T  is  if  you  bring  these  —  mark  me  now  ! 

That  you  're  to  have  the  best  of  dinners, 
For  your  Catullus'  purse,  I  vow, 

Has  nothing  in 't  but  long-legged  spinners. 
But  if  you  don't,  you  '11  have  to  fast 

On  simple  welcome  and  thin  air ; 
And,  as  a  sauce  to  our  repast, 

I  '11  treat  you  to  a  perfume  rare ;  — 
A  perfume  so  divine,  't  is  odds, 

When  you  have  smelt  its  fragrance,  whether 
Yon  won't  devoutly  pray  the  gods, 

To  make  you  straight  all  nose  together. 


NOTES  TO  BOOK  FOUHTH  OF  ODES.  345 
ODE  XIII.  p.  231. 

To  Lyce.  This  Ode  and  the  25th  Ode  of  the 
First  Book  present  a  very  ugly  aspect  of  Horace's 
character.  Lyce,  like  the  Lydia  of  that  Ode,  was 
obviously  an  old  mistress,  and  the  taunts  levelled  at 
her  are  heartless  in  the  extreme.  No  better  proof 
could  be  afforded,  if,  indeed,  any  were  wanted,  of 
the  purely  sensuous  feeling,  which  had  governed 
all  Horace's  amours,  and  of  his  inability  to  compre- 
hend that  worship  of  the  heart,  which  consecrates 
through  all  the  ravages  of  time,  or  even  the  degra- 
dation of  vice  a  woman  who  has  once  been  loved. 
Only  a  pagan,  it  is  often  said,  could  feel  or  write 
as  Horace  does  in  this  Ode.  One  would  fain  think 
so,  were  the  proofs  to  the  contrary  not  too  numer- 
ous. Men  will  certainly  not  dare  now-a-days, 
openly  to  avow  such  sentiments ;  that  is  something 
gained.  But  not  very  long  since  we  could  have 
almost  matched  Horace  even  here.  Thus  a  great 
wit  and  fine  gentleman  of  the  last  century,  Sir 
Charles  Hanbury  Williams,  in  his  published  poems 
treats  a  former  mistress,  the  celebrated  Mrs.  Mar- 
garet Woffington,  (who,  however,  did  not  like  Lyce 
outlive  her  fascinations,)  with  a  rude  insolence 
which  makes  one  wish  she  had  played  Sir  Harry 
Wildair  off  the  stage  as  well  as  upon  it,  and  caned 
him  roundly.  While  sighing  at  her  feet  he  writes 
of  her  thus  (Works,  London,  1822,  Vol.  II.  p.  4)  :  — 

'T  is  not  her  form  alone  I  prize, 
Which  every  fool,  that  has  his  ejes. 

As  well  as  I  can  see  ; 
To  say  she 's  fair  is  but  to  say, 
AVhen  the  sun  shines  at  noon 't  is  day, 

Which  none  need  learn  of  me. 
But  I 'm  in  love  with  Peggy's  mind, 
Where  every  virtue  is  combined, 

That  can  adorn  the  fair. 
15* 


346       NOTES  TO  BOOK  FOURTH  OF  ODES. 

She  discards  him,  no  doubt  with  good  reason, 
and  then,  addressing  to  her  by  name  an  adaptation 
of  Horace's  Ode  to  Barine  (Vol.  II.  8),  he  assails 
his  former  paragon  in  this  unmanly  strain : 

By  tricks  and  cheats  and  lies  you  live, 
By  breach  of  word  and  honour  thrive, 
Like  my  good  Lord  of  Bath. 

Those  who  are  curious  to  see  with  what  coarse 
raillery  a  gentleman  of  the  last  century  could  in- 
sult a  brilliant  beauty,  who  had  condescended  to 
grant  him  her  favours,  may  consult  the  remainder 
of  the  poem. 


NOTES  TO  THE  EPODES. 


EPODE  I.  p.  241. 

The  occasion  of  this  Ode  is  uncertain.  It  has 
been  customary  to  refer  it  to  the  campaign  which 
ended  in  the  battle  of  Actium,  B.  C.  31.  But 
this  seems  unlikely,  as  Maecenas  was  not  there. 
Mr.  Thomas  Dyer,  whose  view  is  adopted  by  Mr. 
J.  W.  Newman,  with  greater  probability  refers  it 
to  the  Sicilian  war,  in  which  Maecenas  took  part. 
B.  C.  36.  The  Liburnians  referred  to  in  the  first 
line  were  vessels  of  a  light  draught,  convenient 
for  an  officer  in  command,  as  being  more  easily 
moved  from  point  to  point.  This  epode  was  proba- 
bly written  not  long  after  Horace  had  been  pre- 
sented with  the  Sabine  villa,  which  he  may  be 
presumed  to  contrast  in  the  concluding  lines  with 
the  sumptuous  villas  in  the  more  fashionable  district 
of  Tusculum. 


EPODE  V.  p.  249. 

This  remarkable  poem  throws  vivid  light  upon 
the  practices  and  belief  of  the  Romans  in  the  mat- 
ter of  witchcraft;  nearly  all  of  which  survived  in 
modern  Europe  till  a  comparatively  recent  date. 
Canidia,  anxious  to  reclaim  the  vagrant  affections 
of  her  lover  Varus,  murders  a  young  boy  by  a 


348 


NOTES  TO  THE  EPODES. 


frightful  process  of  slow  torture,  in  order  to  con- 
coct from  his  liver  and  spleen  a  philtre  of  irresisti- 
ble power.  The  place,  the  time,  the  actors  are 
brought  before  us  with  great  dramatic  force.  Cani- 
dia's  burst  of  wonder  and  rage,  on  finding  that  the 
spells  she  deemed  all-powerful  have  been  neutral- 
ised by  some  sorceress  of  skill  superior  to  her  own, 
gives  great  reality  to  the  scene ;  and  the  curses  of 
the  dying  boy,  launched  with  tragic  vigour,  and 
closing  with  a  touch  of  beautiful  pathos,  make  one 
regret,  that  we  have  no  more  pieces  by  Horace  in 
a  similar  vein.  The  speculations  as  to  who  and 
what  Canidia  was,  in  which  scholars  have  indulged, 
point  to  no  satisfactory  conclusion.  That  she  was  a 
real  personage,  and  most  obnoxious  to  the  poet,  is 
certain  from  the  peculiar  venom  with  which  he 
denounces  her,  not  only  here,  but  in  the  Satire  I.  8, 
as  well  as  from  the  sarcastic  Recantation  and  Re- 
ply, which  form  the  1 7th  Epode. 

Young  children  supplied  a  favourite  condiment 
to  the  witches  of  modern  Europe,  as  well  as  to 
those  of  Horace's  days.  From  them,  according  to 
Baptista  Porta,  was  procured  an  ointment,  which, 
rubbed  into  the  skin,  enabled  the  "  filthy  hags,"  the 
Canidlas  and  Saganas  of  a  more  recent  period,  to 
mount  in  imagination  into  the  air,  and  to  enjoy 
amorous  dalliance  with  their  paramours.  Thus  in 
Scot's  Discoverie  of  Witchcraft  we  find  the  following 
recipe  for  this  precious  embrocation  cited  from  that 
great  Neapolitan  authority.  "  R.  the  fat  of  young 
children,  and  seethe  it  with  water  in  a  brazen  vessell, 
reserving  the  thickest  of  that  which  remaineth 
boiled  in  the  bottom,  which  they  lay  up  and  keep, 
until  occasion  serveth  to  use  it.  They  put  here- 
unto Eleoselinum,  Aconitum,  frondes  populeas,  and 
soot"  "  They  stamp  all  these  together,  and  then 
they  rub  all  parts  of  their  bodies  exceedingly,  till 
they  look  red  and  be  very  hot,  so  as  che  pores  may 
be  opened,  and  their  flesh  soluble  and  loose."   "  By 


NOTES  TO  THE  EPODES. 


349 


this  means  in  a  moonlight  night  they  seem  to  be 
carried  in  the  air,  to  feasting,  singing,  dancing, 
kissing,  culling,  and  other  acts  of  venery,  with  such 
joutb-  as  they  love  and  desire  most."  Reginald 
Sett's  Discoverie  of  Witchcraft,  p.  184,  ed.  1584. 
The  sacrifice  of  infancy  has  always  been  thought 
welcome  to  the  devil.  Shakspeare's  witches  make 
the  hell  broth  of  their  cauldron  "  thick  and  slab  " 
by  adding  the 

Finger  of  birth-strangled  babe 
Ditch-delivered  by  a  drab ; 

And  ingredients  of  a  similar  kind  figure  in  most 
of  the  plays  of  the  Elizabethan  period,  where 
witches  and  their  orgies  are  introduced.  See,  for 
example,  The  Witch  by  Thomas  Middleton,  in  Mr. 
Dyce's  edition  of  that  dramatist.  Vol.  III.  p.  259  et 
seq. —  In-Jonson's  Masque  of  Queens,  one  of  the 
Hags  thus  reports  her  achievements.  (Gilford's 
Ed.  Vol.  VII.  p.  130.) 

I  had  a  dagger :  what  did  I  with  that  ? 
KhTd  an  infant  to  have  his  fat. 

Jonson,  as  might  be  expected,  has  borrowed  large- 
ly from  Horace  in  this  Masque,  in  which  he  has  skil- 
fully brought  together  all  the  floating  superstitions, 
ancient  and  modern,  as  to  witches  and  their  arts. 


EPODE  VI.  p.  253. 

Like  him,  whose  joys  Lycambes  dash'd,  §*c.  The 
poets  who  thus  made  Furies  of  their  Muses  were 
Arnhilochus  and  Hipponax.  Lycambes  had  prom- 
ised his  daughter  Neobule  to  Archilochus,  and 
afterwards  broke  his  promise.  The  ferocity  of  the 
poet's  satire  drove  him  to  commit  suicide.  So,  too, 
Bupalus  a  sculptor  of  Chios,  who  had  caricatured 
Hipponax,  adopted  the  same  effectual  means  of 
escaping  the  sting  of  satirist's  verses. 


350 


NOTES  TO  THE  EPODES. 


EPODE  IX.  p.  257. 

This  Ode  appears  to  have  been  written  on  the 
arrival  in  Rome  of  tidings  of  the  battle  of  Actium. 
The  "  self-styled  Neptunius  "  was  Sextus  Pompeius, 
who  was  defeated  in  B.  C.  36,  by  Agrippa  off  My  las, 
and  again  off  Naulochus,  in  the  Sicilian  Sea.  He 
had  taken  into  his  service  all  the  slaves  who  fled  to 
him.  The  "  woman's  slave  "  of  the  third  verse  is 
of  course  Marc  Antony. 


EPODE  XVI.  p.  267. 

To  the  Roman  People.  This  poem  was  probably 
written  shortly  before  the  peace  of  Brundusium, 
B.  C.  40,  was  concluded  between  Antony  and  Oc- 
tavius,  and  when  the  dangers  threatening  Borne 
from  civil  dissensions  were  of  the  most  alarming 
kind. 

The  story  of  the  Phocasans  here  referred  to  is 
told  by  Herodotus  (Clio  165).  Their  city  having 
been  attacked  by  Harpagus,  one  of  the  generals  of 
Cyrus,  B.  C.  534,  "  the  Phocaaans  launched  their 
fifty-oared  galleys,  and  having  put  their  wives,  chil- 
dren, and  goods  on  board,  together  with  the  images 
from  their  temples,  and  other  offerings,  except 
works  of  brass  or  stone,  or  pictures,  set  sail  for 
Chios ; "  and  the  Persians  took  possession  of  Pho- 
casa,  abandoned  by  all  its  inhabitants.  They  sub- 
sequently returned  and  put  to  the  sword  the  Persian 
garrison  which  had  been  left  by  Harpagus  in  the 
city.  "  Afterwards,  when  this  was  accomplished, 
they  pronounced  terrible  imprecations  on  any  who 
should  desert  the  fleet ;  besides  this,  they  sunk  a 
mass  of  red-hot  iron,  and  swore  '  that  they  would 
never  return  to  Phocaea,  till  this  burning  mass 
should  appear  again/  " 


NOTES  TO  THE  EPODES. 


351 


The  idea  of  the  Happy  Isles  was  a  familiar  one 
with  the  Greek  poets.  They  became  in  time  con- 
founded with  the  Elysian  fields,  in  which  the  spirits 
of  the  departed  good  and  great  enjoyed  perpetual 
rest.  In  this  character  Ulysses  mentions  them  in 
Mr.  Tennyson's  noble  monologue : 

It  may  be  that  the  gulfs  shall  wash  us  down, 
It  may  be  we  shall  reach  the  Happy  Isles, 
And  see  the  great  Achilles,  whom  we  knew. 

These  islands  were  supposed  to  lie  in  the  far 
West,  and  were  probably  the  poetical  amplification 
of  some  voyagers'  account  of  the  Canaries  or  of 
Madeira.  There  has  always  been  a  region  beyond 
the  boundaries  of  civilization  to  which  the  poet's 
fancy  has  turned  for  ideal  happiness  and  peace. 
The  difference  between  ancient  and  modern  is, 
that  material  comforts,  as  in  this  Epode,  enter 
largely  into  the  romantic  dream  of  the  former, 
while  independence,  beauty,  and  grandeur  are  the 
chief  elements  in  the  picture  of  the  latter. 

Larger  constellations  burning,  mellow  moons  and 
happy  skies, 

Breadth  of  Tropic  shade  and  palms  in  cluster,  knots 
of  paradise. 

Never  comes  the  trader,  never  floats  an  European 
flag, 

Slides  the  bird  o'er  lustrous  woodland,  swings  the 
trailer  from  the  crag. 

Droops  the  heavy-blossom'd  bower,  hangs  the  heavy- 
fruited  tree, 

Summer  isles  of  Eden  lying  in  dark  -purple  spheres 
of  sea. 


352 


NOTES  TO  THE  EPODES. 


EPODE  XVII.  p.  271. 

Reverse  thy  whirling  wheel  amain.  A  wheel  ap- 
pears to  have  been  turned  by  the  witches  and  sor- 
cerers of  Greece  and  Rome  in  their  incantations, 
under  the  belief  that  its  revolutions  drew  after  them 
the  soul  of  the  person  intended  to  be  spellbound. 
It  is  to  a  wheel  of  this  kind  that  the  girl  in  Theoc- 
ritus, Idyll  II.,  throughout  her  conjuration  of  the 
wandering  affections  of  her  lover,  keeps  up  an 
appeal. 

iVy£,  eXfce  rv  rrjvov  ipov  ttotl  Scopa  top  avbpa. 

Turn,  wheel,  turn  my  beloved  from  his  paramour 
back  to  my  dwelling  ! 

The  lynx,  torquilla,  the  wryneck,  which  was 
used  by  witches  in  compounding  their  love-potions, 
was  fastened  upon  the  wheel ;  and  so  in  time  the 
wheel  itself  came  to  be  called,  as  in  the  above 
passage,  lynx. 

The  days  and  nights,  they  wax  and  wane, 

But  bring  me  no  release  from  pain,  8fc.   p.  272. 

So  the  witch  in  Macbeth  threatens  the  Master  of 
the  Tiger. 

I  will  drain  him  dry  as  hay. 
Sleep  shall  neither  night  nor  day 
Hang  upon  his  pent-house  lid  ; 
He  shall  live  a  man  forbid  : 
Weary  seven  nights,  nine  times  nine, 
Shall  he  dwindle,  peak,  and  pine. 

The  tongue, 
That  slandered  Helena  the  fair.    p.  272. 

Stesichorus  who  was  blinded  by  the  Dioscuri,  for 
lampooning  their  sister,  wrote  a  recantation,  where- 
upon they  restored  his  sight. 


NOTES  TO  THE  EPODES. 


353 


Think  ye,  that  I  who  can  at  will 
Move  waxen  images,    p.  274. 

That  is,  give  life  and  feeling  to  images  of  wax 
made  to  represent  any  one  whom  she  wished  to 
enchant.  Thus  the  girl  in  the  Second  Idyll  )f 
Theocritus  already  referred  to  (v.  28). 

cos  TaKOiO"  vn  epQuros  6  Mvvdios  avriKa  Ae'A(|us. 

As  this  image  of  wax  I  melt  here  by  aidance  de- 
monic, 

Myndian  Delphis  shall  so  melt  with  love's  passion 
anon. 

Yirgil  uses  the  same  image  in  the  Eighth  Ee- 
logue  (1.  80). 

Limus  ut  hie  durescit,  et  hcec  ut  cera  liquescit, 
Una  eodemque  igni,  sic  nostro  Daphnis  amore. 

As  hardens  with  the  selfsame  fire  this  clay, 
That  melts  the  while  this  mould  of  wax  away, 
So,  so  may  Daphnis  melt  with  love  for  me, 
So  with  hard  heart  all  other  wooers  see ! 

And  Hypsipyle  says  of  Medea  (Ovid.  Heroid. 

Devovet  absentes  simulacraque  cereafigit, 
Et  miserum  tenues  in  j-ecur  urget  acus. 

The  absent  she  binds  with  her  spells,  and  figures  of 
wax  she  devises, 
And  in  their  agonised  spleen  fine-pointed  needles 
she  thrusts. 

In  these  passages  we  are  again  reminded  of  the 
practices  of  modern  sorcery.  The  familiar  instance 
of  Eleanor,  Duchess  of  Gloster,  who  was  accused 

w 


354 


NOTES  TO  THE  EPODES. 


along  with  Hume,  Margery  Jourdain,  and  others, 
of  attempting  by  means  of  an  image  of  this  kind  to 
compass  the  death  of  Henry  VI. ,  will  occur  to  every- 
one. The  older  dramatists  are  full  of  allusions  to 
the  practice.    Thus,  in  Middleton's  Witch. 

Hecate.  What  death  is 't  you  desire  for  Alma- 
childes  ? 

Duchess.    A  sudden  and  a  subtle. 

Hecate.    Then  I 've  fitted  you. 
His  picture  made  in  wax,  and  gently  molten 
By  a  blue  fire  kindled  with  dead  men's  eyes, 
Will  waste  him  by  degrees. 

These  images  are  also  referred  to  by  Horace  in 
the  Eighth  Satire  of  the  First  Book,  of  which,  as 
completing  the  series  of  poems,  in  which  Canidia  is 
mentioned,  a  translation  is  subjoined. 

Erewhile  I  was  a  fig-tree  stock, 
A  senseless  good-for-nothing  block, 
When,  sorely  puzzled  which  to  shape, 
A  common  joint-stool  or  Priape, 
The  carpenter  his  fiat  pass'd 
Deciding  for  the  god  at  last. 
So  god  I  am,  to  fowl  and  thief 
A  source  of  dread  beyond  belief. 
Thieves  at  my  right  hand,  and  the  stake 
Which  from  my  groin  flames  menace,  quake, 
Whilst  the  reeds  waving  from  my  crown 
Scare  the  intrusive  birds  of  town 
From  these  new  gardens  quite  away, 
Where,  at  no  very  distant  day, 
From  vilest  cribs  were  corpses  brought 
In  miserable  shells  to  rot. 
For 't  was  the  common  burial-ground 
Of  all  the  poor  for  miles  around  ; 
Buffoon  Pantolabus  lay  here, 
With  spendthrift  Nomentanus  near ; 


NOTES  TO  THE  EPODE3. 

it  stretch 'd  a  thousand  feet  in  span, 
A  hundred  back  in  depth  it  ran,  — 
A  pillar  mark'd  its  bounds,  and  there 
Might  no  man  claim  the  soil  as  heir. 

Now  it  is  possible  to  dwell 
On  Esquiline,  and  yet  be  well, 
To  saunter  there  and  take  your  ease 
On  trim  and  sunny  terraces, 
And  this  where  late  the  ground  was  white, 
With  dead  men's  bones,  disgusting  sight! 
But  not  the  thieves  and  beasts  of  prey, 
Who  prowl  about  the  spot  alway, 
When  darkness  falls,  have  caused  to  me 
Such  trouble  and  anxiety, 
As  those  vile  hags,  who  vex  the  souls 
Of  men  by  spells,  and  poison-bowls. 
Do  what  I  will,  they  haunt  the  place, 
And  ever,  when  her  buxom  face 
The  wandering  moon  unveils,  these  crones 
Come  here  to  gather  herbs  and  bones. 
Here  have  I  seen,  with  streaming  hair, 
Canidia  stalk,  her  feet  all  bare. 
Her  inky  cloak  tuck'd  up,  and  howl 
With  Sagana,  that  beldam  foul. 
The  deadly  pallor  of  their  face 
With  fear  and  horror  filPd  the  place. 
Up  with  their  nails  the  earth  they  threw, 
Then  limb-meal  tore  a  coal-black  ewe, 
And  pour'd  its  blood  into  the  hole, 
So  to  evoke  the  shade  and  soul 
Of  dead  men,  and  from  these  to  wring 
Responses  to  their  questioning. 
Two  effigies  they  had, — of  wool 
Was  one,  and  one  of  wax :  to  rule 
The  other  and  with  pangs  subdue, 
The  woollen  larger  of  the  two ; 
The  waxen  cower'd,  like  one  that  stands 
Beseeching  in  the  hangman's  hands. 
On  Hecate  one,  Tisiphone 
The  other  calls;  and  you  might  see 


NOTES  TO  THE  EFOI>ES. 


Serpents  and  hell-hounds  thread  the  dark, 
Whilst,  these  vile  orgies  not  to  mark, 
The  moon,  all  bloody-red  of  hue, 
Behind  the  massive  tombs  withdrew. 

Why  should  I  more  ?  Why  tell,  how  each 
Pale  ghost  with  wild  and  woful  screech 
To  gibbering  Sagana  answer  makes ; 
How  grizzled  wolves  and  mottled  snakes 
Slunk  to  their  holes  ;  and  how  the  fire, 
Fed  by  the  wax,  flamed  high  and  higher ; 
Or  what  my  vengeance  for  the  woe, 
I  had  been  doomed  to  undergo 
By  these  two  Furies,  with  their  shrieks, 
Their  spells  and  other  ghastly  freaks  ? 

***** 
Back  to  the  city  scamper'd  they  ; 
Canidia's  teeth  dropp'd  by  the  way, 
And  Sagana's  high  wig  ;  and  you 
With  laughter  long  and  loud  might  view 
Their  herbs,  and  charmed  adders,  wound 
In  mystic  coils,  bestrew  the  ground. 


NOTE  TO  THE  SECULAK  HYMN. 


For  a  full  account  of  the  Secular  Games,  see  the 
article  "  Ludi  Seculares "  in  Smith's  Dieti&nary  of 
Antiquities. 

Augustus,  resolved  to  mark  conspicuously  the 
close  of  the  first  ten  years  for  which  the  imperial 
power  had  been  placed  in  his  hands,  and  the  distin- 
guished success  which  had  attended  his  administra- 
tion and  his  arms,  appointed  a  great  Festival,  based 
upon  the  model  of  the  ancient  Ludi  Tarentini  01 
Taurii.  These  had  been  held  in  seasons  of  public 
calamity  or  peril,  to  propitiate  the  infernal  deities 
Dis  and  Proserpina,  who  were,  howeverr  dropped 
out  of  view  on  the  present  occasion,  and  the  festival 
held  in  honour  of  Apollo  (the  patron  god  of  Augus- 
tus) and  Diana.  It  was  desirable  to  have  this  fes- 
tival regarded,  not  as  something  new  and  special, 
but  merely  as  the  observance  of  a  periodic  solem- 
nity. The  Quindecemvirs,  therefore,  were  directed 
to  consult  the  Sibylline  Books,  and  they  reported, 
that  the  cyclical  period  for  its  celebration  had  now 
revolved  { B.  C.  1 7).  Ateius  Capito,  the  celebrated 
jurist,  was  appointed  to  arrange  the  ceremonies, 
and  Horace  was  requested  to  prepare  an  Ode.  The 
festival  was  celebrated  with  great  splendour.  It 
occupied  three  days  and  nights.  The  Ode  was 
sung  at  the  second  hour  of  the  night  at  the  most 
solemn  part  of  the  festival,  when  the  emperor,  at- 
tended by  the  Fifteen  Men,  who  presided  over  re- 


#58  NOTE  TO  THE  SECULAR  HYMN. 

ligious  affairs,  was  offering  sacrifice  in  person  on  the 
banks  of  the  Tiber.  The  chorus  consisted  of  twenty- 
seven  boys  and  the  same  number  of  girls  of  noble 
birth,  whose  parents  were  yet  living  (patrimi  and 
matrimi).  See  Ode  IV.  6,  supra,  which  is  gener- 
ally regarded  as  one  of  the  Hymns  sung  at  an  earlier 
part  of  the  Festival. 

Diana  is  celebrated  under  the  three  names  of 
nithyia  (The  Bringer  to  Light),  the  Greek  name  for 
Here  and  Artemis,  —  Lucina,  also  applied  indis- 
criminately to  Juno  and  Diana,  and  bearing  the 
same  signification,  —  and  Genitalis  (The  Begetter), 
supposed  to  be  a  version  of  the  Greek  Te^rvXAis, 
which  was  applied  to  Aphrodite  as  well  as  to 
Artemis. 


THE  END. 


